


The J. Alfred Prufrock Arc: Verses 1-8

by Vain



Series: The J. Alfred Prufrock Arc [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-06-11
Updated: 2003-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 02:46:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vain/pseuds/Vain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SS/HP slash. Verses 1 - 8; Severus and Harry begin a relationship . . . whether they want to or not. Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You're Standing On My Neck

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely un-betaed, (hey, everyone, look at me mangle the English language!), so any errors are all my own. I apologize ahead of time. ^_^;;;;;;;;;; Gomen, gomen!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> **_You're Standing On My Neck_**  
>  \- Hanakai Mikakedaoshi  
>  6.11.2003  
>  ________________________________________________________________________  
> 
> 
> **Standard Disclaimer:** I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. I am not profiting from this.
> 
> **_Warning_ s**: Light pre-slash overtones depending on one's perceptions.
> 
> **Continuity:** This takes place at the end of GoF and CONTAINS mild SPOILERS for Book 4.
> 
> **Notes:** This is completely un-betaed, (hey, everyone, look at me mangle the English language!), so any errors are all my own. I apologize ahead of time. ^_^;;;;;;;;;; Gomen, gomen!  
>  _Also_ , the first quote (the one at the beginning) pertains to Harry and the second quote (the one at the end) pertains to Severus. Both are translated from their original French.  
>  _Kudos_ to the person who recognizes the title! ^^ I thought it was amusing.  
>  This story was inspired by _Telanu's_ fic  A Most Disquieting Tea.
> 
> **Do not steal from me.**

  
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*** ****

****" _I can be bound to no man except those to whom I give.  
I understand no men except those to whom I am bound._ "  
\- Antione de Saint-Exup y  
Flight to Arras** **

*****~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***  
**  


_H_ e's watching himself again. Staring into his reflection. It must be an odd thing to seeeven odder to contemplate; me watching him watching himself, and neither of us really seeing anything. He doesn't laugh anymore. Doesn't smile. Ever since . . . then.

Crouch. The Tournament. Voldemort.

The Mark on my arm flares briefly, but the pain is only an echo of what will happen when he calls me. And he will call me.

And question me.

Why didn't I go to him when the Mark first burned that night? Why haven't I contacted Lucius? Why did I say I was a spy for Dumbledore?

And I _did_ say that I was a spy for Dumbledore. It's on record. ' _I am a spy_ ,' I had so arrogantly announced to the world after that Halloween all those years ago.

Not long enough ago.

Why did you say you're a spy, Severus? Severussssssssssss . . .?

And what do I say to that?

. . .

I find myself without answers more and more these days. The last time that happened the world was a dark place, everyone at war with himself or everyone else. The last time that happened I told myself that I was in love and had my arm branded with the Mark of evil itself. In love with knowledge. Knowledge is power. My mother was cross with me.

The sun is setting now, casting a long fiery orange shadow across the too placid lake. Shadows and flame. He's still sitting there, so very still, moonbeam perfection in his own gangly, adolescent way. I take a moment to appreciate him. It's an aesthetic appeal, not sexual (Merlin knows there's _nothing_ sexual about a fourteen year old boy), but it's nice to step away from the heavy roles of the Professor and the Potions Master and the Sly One and the Spy and simply **_LOOK_**. Look and see the world without Slytherin tinted eyes. And I do look and I see a tentative kind of beauty in him.

It's . . . comforting somehow. He's slowly growing out of Potter's features, allowing the gentle glide of his mother's cheekthe slight arch of Lily Evan's brow, the easy grace of her movementto emerge and vie for dominance. As was always the case when they were alive, the hot, raging flame that was James Potter recedes with the approach of Lily  
Evanseven in the pale, brooding, enchantingly flawed features of their child.

For the first time since I've met the child I realize that he is truly his parents' legacy. The thought is not accompanied by the usual rancor that curls in my stomach at the mention of James Potter. It's more like a strange, weeping sort of envy intermingled with pity. Profound pity. Is this what has made him a legend?

I envy the Potters because I will never leave such a profound mark on the world. Never leave a child like this: this remarkable little miniature adult who holds our very world in his rough, unsteady hands. I pity him because this child, remarkable though he may be, is all that they will ever have in this world. This child.

Who will in all probability not even live to see twenty.

Who will never grow up. Never have children. Never leave any mark on the world greater than the facts that he Lived, was loved, and somewhere along the way saved the world. And most of the world will never even know it.

No, he does not need the accolades that I so scorn and that everyone else presses into his maladroit hands. He needs our apologies. Six billion apologies and one cry of impotent rage so loud that the very gods sit up and take notice. The cry is mine and the gods . . .

Most wizards have abandoned them. But I can say with pride that my gods abandoned me first.

And still he sits there.

I wonder briefly where the lovey-dovey duo of the Trio are. They rarely leave him alone now. I think they're afraid of what he may do if left to his own devices. Should they be afraid?

He has yet to move. I decide that they should.

My long strides devour the ground separating us as I make my way towards him. Everyone's at dinner now, so I know that there's no one to see me approach himno one to wonder at the whys and the what fors. We are alone. _He_ is alone. He should never be alone. Not now. Not after so very much has happened.

I purposely make enough noise to wake the dead so that I don't startle him. He's already been far too emotional. Scratch that. He hasn't been nearly emotional enough. And that, of course, is why I'm here now, right?

. . .

Of course it is.

I pause next to him and wonder how much it will destroy my image if I sit down next to him. Greasy Snape. Sitting in the grass. By the lake. With Harry Potter. At sunset.

Right. And a hippogriff will fly out of Minerva's arse at the farewell feast tomorrow night.

. . .

I decide to remain standing. Naturally, Snape Standing is more like Snape Looming Menacingly Over Poor Defenseless EnterNonSlytherinStudent'sNameHere. Not for the first time I feel a distant, almost indistinct pang of regret over the . . . presence I've spent the last fourteen years cultivating. But it's a very, _very_ distant pang and the spectacular red and burnt golden yellows of the sunset are rather distracting, especially given the oddly flushed look they give Potter's skin. I stand over him in silence for several minutes, enjoying the quiet and the view and . . . strangely enough, not quite resenting the company. Yes, it must be a very odd thing to see indeed.

The headache I didn't even know I had has faded and I can feel the creases of age and worry fade from my brow.

"Sir?"

He still hasn't moved.

"Potter." It's an acknowledgement, nothing more, nothing less.

He shivers and wraps his arms around himself slowly. I suddenly notice the chill in the air. It seems a bit late in the years for the air to be so cold, though. He continues looking on into the distance as the sun slowly slides down the sky towards the horizon. After a few more moments of silence I find myself quietly slipping off my heavy outer robe and dropping it down over those frail, too thin shoulders. He starts violently and looks up at me, large round eyes made even larger and rounder by the strangely endearing combination of bottle-lens glasses and surprise. I pointedly ignore him. After a moment of scrutinizing me with an oddly narrow expression, he wraps my robe around him tightly and then . . .

Leans . . . back . . . and . . . _rests_? . . . Against my legs.

Alright.

And then . . . _snuggles_ . . . down into my robes.

. . .

Right.

Of course.

Because this happens everyday.

I look down my nose at him and lift an eyebrow, but he's steadily looking at the sunset. The horizon is black and the sun itself is an angry autumn orange sphere flat against a bleeding sky.

He sighs almost inaudibly and some of the tension leaves me, melting into the cool twilight air.

". . . Sir?" Tentative. But flat.

"Potter?" Emotionless and calm. No sneer. No mockery. Just . . . me.

"Why are you here?"

_Because you're here._ "You weren't at dinner." _You don't smile anymore._ "The Headmaster volunteered my services in locating you." _I'm worried about you._

"Oh."

Oh, indeed.

He looks away from the dying of the light, tilting his head back at an odd angle that can't possibly be comfortable, to regard me with disturbingly blank eyes. "And now?"

The question confuses me so I ignore him.

He presses the issue. "Now that you've found me . . . what happens?"

I scowl at the sun. Nothing. Everything. Anything. I don't understand what he's asking me. And I don't care to try. "What do you think happens, Potter?"

He looks away from me and back to the sky. For a long time he doesn't say anything, but then, just as the sun is halfway below the earth, he shifts against my legs. "He's going to kill me. Isn't he?"

A muscle in my cheek twitches and I can't seem to control it. There's no need to act like I don't understand. Anything but an honest reply would be an insult to us both. So I reply. "He certainly seems to be planning to have a good go at it, at least." Cold. Scathing. Cruel. Also just me.

He doesn't react beyond a long, slow blink that makes me curse myself.

The silence flows between us again, not uncomfortable, simply . . . ours. It's odd. I never thought that I could ever bring myself to share my silences with anyone, let alone Harry Potter, the Golden Gryffindor. Only he's not really golden, is he? No. He's tarnished. I empathize and briefly wonder if he's always been that way or if it's simply me. He offers me no solutions to my dilemma.

"Am I going to die, Professor? In the war?"

And that's what it is, isn't it? What it's always been . . . A war?

I look down at him for a long, cold moment. Does it matter what I say to him? He stares up at me, only the faintest light of expectation in his otherwise empty eyes. My brave Gryffindor. You endlessly foolish, foolish beautiful child.

_Yes, Potter._ "No, Potter." _You will most likely die._ "You will not die." _Though it will be the end of me._ "As much as it pains me to say so."

He stares at me and purses his lips and I know that he doesn't believe me. But what more is there to say?

I remain silent.

A man could lose himself in eyes like that. And never care that he's gone.

He breaks eye contact first and stands, shivering again, although I know that he can't possibly be cold underneath that cloak. He shrugs off my robe and makes to hand it back to me, but some instinct that I've never identified or understood makes me push it back into his hands.

"Take it." The words taste like rust, or perhaps blood, in my mouth. The sun has long since vanished.

He looks at me oddly, that queer tentative look that's usually reserved for puzzles or mirrors or Chambers of Secrets that he knows he can unlock if he could just find that one little piece . . .

I look away first this time, eyes drawn back to the missing sun and the purple sky.

"Goodnight, Professor."

"Goodnight, Mr. Potter."

And then he's gone. Just . . . gone. Faded into the quiet night like the brief shadow I've always tried to convince myself he is. I wonder how much I truly hate that boy and how much I actually hate myself. And I find I have no answers.

Albus finds me an hour later, cloakless, shivering slightly, and staring glassy-eyed into the night. He stands next to me in the dark, looking frail and old. He's looked this way since the Hufflepuff boy's body was identified by his parents. I let my eyes flicker to him and offer him my arm to lean on. He doesn't need it and we both know it, but he takes it anyway. I'm strangely grateful.

"Did you find Harry Potter alright?" he asks. The subtle shift of tone tells me that he's asking far more than the actual question.

I stare at the dark ground in false fascination as we head back to the castle, not knowing how to answer, but knowing that he'll accept nothing but truth from me. And knowing as well that no answer at all isn't even an option.

"Severus?"

"Yes, Albus?"

"I asked you if you'd found Harry Potter."

". . . Yes. I think I did, actually."

It isn't enough for him, though. The nosey old bastard.

"And?"

I stop, forcing him to halt along side me and he looks over at me, blue eyes glittering strangely in the darkness. I feel the comfort of my familiar shuttered expression close over my face and a sneer forms on my lips, more from habit than anything else. "Albus, if you  
please, I am cold and tired and I"

I suddenly run out of steam, snapping my mouth closed abruptly to swallow things that I don't want revealed. Never ever want revealed. Even if Albus already knows. Saying something is much different from knowing something. Childish though it seems, I've never been able to shake the idea that saying something makes it real. As long as it's silent, unspoken, then it's . . . alright. It's your burden to suffer alone.

"I . . . am . . . tired," I finish, my voice almost unseemly breathless.

Albus looks at me and for a moment I see something like sorrow pass over his face. Sorrow and understanding. And I know that, as things stand, it's alright. And that he understands. I feel the need to apologize for all the things I've done wrong and all the things I can't change, but Albus isn't the one who needs to hear those words. And we both know that I'll never say them to the one who needs to hear them.

So we resume walking instead.

"Would you like some tea, child?" he asks after several moments.

I smile, but it's only a bitter twitch of my lips. "Yes, Albus. I would like that a good deal."

He twinkles at me faintly and I relax, savoring the memory of a warm, slender back pressed against my knees and the quiet of a single perfect sunset by the lake. It's a memory that I will treasurethere'll be none like it in the future, I knowbut I hold it close to my heart nonetheless. Because I know that if I turn around right now the sky will be black and empty except for the cold, distant stars.

And the stars, I've been told, have never cared for anyone but themselves.

  
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

**" _The friend within the man is that part of him which belongs to you  
and opens to you a door which never, perhaps, is opened to another.  
Such a friend is true, and all he says is true; and he loves you,  
even if he hates you in other mansions of his heart._ "  
\- Antione de Saint-Exupéry  
The Wisdom of the Sands**

**~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~**

**~ Fin**

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***  



	2. Balm in Gilead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Balm in Gilead_**  
>  \- Hanakai Mikakedaoshi  
> 6.26.2003  
> ___________________________________________________________________________  
> 
> 
> **Standard Disclaimer:** I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling,  
>  Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. I am not profiting from this.
> 
>  ** _Warning_ s**: Light SS/HP pre-slash.
> 
>  ***Continuity:** “Balm in Gilead” is the companion piece to “You’re Standing on My Neck” and takes place at the end of OotP and **CONTAINS SPOILERS for Book 5**. 
> 
> **Notes:** The first quote is **Harry’s POV** and the second quote is **Severus’s POV**. If you're confused about why I choose them, I reccomend that you read the poems in their entirity, particularly _Ulalume_ ; they might also help to explain some of the things that happen in the fic.
> 
> **Do not steal from me.**

  
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

**“ _‘Prophet!’ said I, ‘thing of evil!—prophet still if bird or devil!—  
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,  
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—  
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—  
Is there—_IS _there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me I implore!’_**

**_"Quoth the Raven ‘Nevermore.’_ "**

**\- Edgar Allen Poe  
The Raven**

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***  


_H_ e stiffened—eyes suddenly just a little bit _too_ intent on the rippling surface of the lake, shoulders just a little _too_ hunched, breathing just a little _too_ shallow—and all he could think was, _What are you doing here?!_ The outrage of it was—was—

Well, Harry didn’t quite know _what_ the outrage was of it was exactly, but he didn’t particularly care at the moment. And he just stood there . . . Not moving, not talking, not . . . anything . . . Well, nothing other than sucking up what little peace of mind Luna Lovegood had given him. And smelling like tea and roses and something sweet and bitter and . . . infinitely _Snape-ish_.

 _And to think_ , the boy thought with a bitterness that was rapidly becoming familiar, _I could be packing . . . finishing packing . . . repacking neatly . . ._

Alright then, he wasn’t sure what he could be doing other than avoiding everyone’s eyes at the end of term feast, but even that beat out standing here with Snape, right? Didn’t it? Regardless of the fact that the man smelt like roses and tea.

Bastard.

And _there_ was the anger he wanted! Anger and a sudden strange hyperawareness of the void inside him since Sirius . . .

Sirius.

Harry took a deep breath and resolutely pulled his knees up to his chest. A cool wind ruffled his hair and Snape’s robe whispered softly around the man’s ankles as he silently towered over the boy. He was close. Far, far too close. The green-eyed Gryffindor wrapped his arms so tightly around his knees so tightly he thought his knees might crack from the pressure. He would not tempt Snape. He wouldn’t. Not when he was almost free of the greasy, hooked-nose git. Not after—

He shivered; it had nothing to do with wind. Snape remained silent.

“Well?” Harry demanded at last. The sun was beginning to set, casting odd bars of red, orange and gold across the lake and reminding Harry uncomfortably of that day last year, just like this, only a bit colder, a bit later, a bit less . . .

Less everything. 

That was Before. After the Triwizard Tournament and Cedric, but Before Lestrange. Before Mysteries and Prophecies and Educational Decrees and the mad shrieks of Mrs. Black and portraits that could not accept the deaths of their who-knows-how-many-greats great grandsons. Simply Before.

His head throbbed and he automatically rubbed his scar, though the scar was not the cause.

For a moment, Snape didn’t respond, but then he stared with that same too intent glare at the sinking sunset and cleared his throat. “Does your head hurt?”

“Do you care?” Harry snarled, immediately forgetting his vow not to not tempt Snape. He turned around, tilting his head uncomfortably, to glare up at Snape. 

The Professor’s angular jaw clenched and his eyes flickered with some unnamed emotion before relaxing into the strange, mellow expression that Harry had only seen once before.

For some reason that softness in his normally acidic teacher infuriated Harry. He twisted to his feet with a grace he normally only displayed on a broomstick and turned to face Snape. He clenched his fists helplessly, body shaking with barely suppressed violence, and took a menacing step towards the man who held his ground with a calm that would have been unnerving if Harry had been thinking. 

But Harry was not thinking. He was feeling—feeling beyond anger, beyond hate, beyond fear . . . beyond everything except the burning in his eyes and the cold, aching empty, void where Sirius had been. Where Sirius would have been if not for this . . . this . . . _Man_. This Severus Snape.

Snape, who stopped Harry’s Occlumency lessons.

Snape, who hated Sirius. Hated Harry. Hated his dad.

Snape, who wasted time getting the message back to the Order.

Snape, who could have gotten him away from Umbridge sooner. 

Snape, who poisoned everything he touched.

Poisoned James Potter. Poisoned Remus Lupin. Poisoned Lily Potter. Poisoned Sirius Black. Even poisoned himself.

Snape, who . . .

Who . . .

Who . . .

Cowered against a wall and sobbed, small and unnoticed, while his father shrieked obscenities at his mother.

Who shot flies off his ceiling during holidays when he was bored. He was skilled enough at it to have been bored often.

Who was a plain, twitchy, ungainly, nervous, unloved, “oddball” of a boy once.

Snape, whom his father hated.

Snape, who had once been dangled upside down, stripped half naked in front of nearly everyone who knew him, and mocked for no other reason than the boys who were everything that he would never be were bored. _Bored_. He was their entertainment.

And then those boys grew into men. Men who loved a little boy named Harry. Men who died for that little boy. 

Men who _died_. 

They all died!

And Snape didn’t.

Snape didn’t.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

And for that, more than anything else, Harry could not forgive him. For that, Harry _hated_ him.

“ _BASTARD!!!_ ” His voice did not come out like the roll of thunder that he wanted, but staggered out of his throat as a wounded, cracked thing, and his steps were ungainly and uncontrolled as he surged forward, fist raised to hit the man in front of him. And they were far, far too close to one another.

Harry didn’t notice.

Snape caught his hand easily before the clumsy blow could land and his grip was warm and gently unyielding. He had the audacity to look surprised, stupidly confused, as though he didn’t understand.

Rage ran through Harry, white hot and waxy in his veins, making his skin feel too cold and his body feel too hot and his muscles weak and jumpy as though they were receiving small electric shocks that made it impossible to control himself.

He jerked backwards away from the roseteasweetbitterpaledarksoverywarm _ARSEHOLE_ of a man in front of him with twitching, shuddering motions that were too large to be natural and too weak to be effective. Harry felt like a marionette, wooden and empty, and he couldn’t seem to stop his mouth from moving. His tongue was thick and clumsy and tasted faintly like raw meat in his mouth as his free hand made a second attempt to hit Snape.

“ _BASTARD!!!_ ”

The second hand was caught with humiliating ease. “Potter, have you gone mad?!”

Harry jerked back again, only to be pulled forward towards that thin, surprisingly solid chest and it occurred to some part of Harry, the part that was horrified at what he was doing, who he was doing it to, and where this was going, that he just barely came up to Snape’s collar bone. The observation only fueled his rage.

And his mouth, amazingly detached from his brain, continued to work, pouring out accusations and obscenities that Harry was afraid to think, but somehow knew he had always believed. “BASTARD!! Traitor!! COWARD!!!! It should have been you! Mum, Dad, Sirius . . . It should have been you. _They didn’t deserve to die!_ ”

“Potter, stop it!!”

The more words poured out of his mouth, the more rubies he could see vanishing from the bottom of the Gryffindor hourglass. “SNAKE!! Death Eater!! _It should have been you!_ You always hated them! Hated me! You wanted them to die!!”

“Potter, you’re going to hurt yourself!!” The grip on his wrists tightened painfully as Harry thrashed wildly against him, his feral struggles making his shrieks almost incomprehensible. “Potter! Stop this this instant!”

“I _hate_ you!! You’re the spy. You could have known! Should have known! They died because of you!”

“Harry, stop!”

_Harry . . ._

“It should have been you! You took them from me!”

_He called me Harry . . ._

“ _It should have been YOU!!!_ ”

And then suddenly Harry stopped, slumped against Snape’s chest and glaring up into those fathomless black eyes, feeling both wild and empty and knowing only that he desperately wanted to be anywhere but here, but he somehow didn’t much want to leave either.

It wouldn’t have been like this Before. Not Before.

There was Before and there was After and it wasn’t Before now. Not anymore. And Harry suddenly hated After even more, so he buried his face in Snape’s strong chest, listening to the older man’s deep, strong breaths, the heavy pounding of his heart, and inhaling great gulps of the roseandteasweetandsourSnape smell. His eyes stung and a hard lump arose in the back of his throat that he couldn’t seem to swallow around.

Harry’s knees gave way and Snape’s hands felt like brands wrapped round his wrists as the older man used them to allow him to slowly sink to the ground. The boy sat heavily on ankles, the black robes gently brushing his face as he murmured to the ground, “It should have been you . . .”

Snape said nothing, merely held up outstretched arms to ensure that the boy didn’t collapse entirely and stared down at him with such _sad_ eyes . . .

Harry’s position was weak and submissive and Snape seemed to rise out of the earth with all the impassivity of a mountain and the black robes were warm and soft against Harry’s face. 

Green eyes blurred as tears welled up in them and Harry wondered if it was sick of him to think that this was the most comforting thing he would ever find anywhere in this unfamiliarly familiar world of After.

He hurt inside.

Snape watched him passively for a moment, supporting him as best he could in that strained, uncomfortable, so-very-wrong position, before squatting down and gently folding Harry’s arms on the tiny space of June green grass between them.

“Potter—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“. . . Potter . . .”

A strange, strained noise left the teen’s lips, but Harry’s face remained dry and pale just as his eyes remained dry and red.

“Potter . . .” And the Professor sounded so ridiculously bereft . . . as though Harry were asking something of him that he couldn’t possibly be expected to give.

Harry hunched over slightly, pulling himself into a ball.

“ _Harry_.” Desperate. Strained. Thin. 

Harry had the distinct impression that the word had been physically forcibly drawn out, trembling and wet with blood. It occurred to him that this was the first time Snape had ever said his name. And the first time _anyone_ had ever said his name like _that_.

Green eyes looked up, red and angry. For a moment the two of them stared at one another and _something_ . . . something so heavy, so big, _so infinitely important_ seemed to pass between them that Harry reached up to grasp it for inspection. His hand only passed ineffectually through the air, though. Quidditch calloused fingers gently brushed a sallow, shockingly soft cheek and Snape shivered slightly.

Harry was involuntarily reminded of all those old, smutty muggle American flatfoot mysteries that Aunt Petunia seemed so fond of with their smooth black and white pictures, voluptuous and enigmatic characters, bitter scripts, and long heavy silences during which so very _much_ was said. _“Of all the lakes at all the castles in all the world, he had to walk up to **mine**.” _ He almost laughed, choking on it instead, knowing instinctively that it would have come out as a hard, manic sound.

“Harry.”

The hand fell away and some of the strain relaxed from Snape’s too-close face. “I—”

“I know,” he interrupted. 

Harry barely smothered a desperate need to know just _what_ Snape thought he knew because Harry sure as hell didn’t have a clue what was going on. 

“I know,” Snape repeated. Calmly, but intensely. Sincerely. A statement of fact.

Harry looked away, uncomfortable, overwhelmed, and barren feeling.

After a moment Snape stood. “You should go to bed, Mr. Potter.” Now coldly. “The train leaves early tomorrow.” And then he turned so sharply that the grass churned up beneath his heel and headed back to the castle, robes swirling around him like a small storm.

“Snape.”

He paused.

Harry looked up at him from his place on the ground, his expression strangely intense. “It was rotten. What they did to you that day. It was really rotten. I—I wouldn’t have done it. I . . . would have tried to stop it.” _Like Mum did_ , he wanted to add. _I would have been like Mum._ He didn’t say it, though. 

Snape’s head turned, his expression hidden from sight by a curtain of greasy black hair. “Would you have?” Snape tilted his head slightly and Harry looked away, feeling inexplicably ashamed.

“. . .”

“Go to bed, Mr. Potter.” His voice was both rough and gentle, like honey dripped over a new razor. Sex and silk and something like pain. Harry shivered. “You’ll catch your death out here.”

And then Snape turned and left him alone in the silence. 

That night Harry didn’t dream of snakes or unopened doors or Ravenclaw Seekers or Dark Lords. Instead, he dreamed of a tall, dark man with molten silver hands who whispered secrets in his ear that he could no longer comprehend upon waking.

  
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~** **~~~~~***

**“ _Here once, through an alley Titanic,  
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul—  
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.  
These were days when my heart was volcanic  
As the scoriac rivers that roll—  
As the lavas that restlessly roll  
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek  
In the ultimate climes of the pole—  
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek  
In the realms of the boreal pole_**

**_“Our talk had been serious and somber,  
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere—  
Our memories were treacherous and sere—  
We knew not the month of October,  
And we marked not the night of the year—  
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)  
We noted not the dim lake of Auber  
(Though once we had journeyed down here)—  
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,  
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir._”**

**\- Edgar Allen Poe  
Ulalume**

**~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~**

**_~ Fin_ **

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***  



	3. Behind These Cold Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
> **_Behind These Cold Eyes_**  
>  \- Hanakai Mikakedaoshi  
> 7.4 – 10.2003
> 
> _________________________________________________________________________  
> 
> 
> **Standard Disclaimer:** I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. I am not profiting from this. The excerpts from the book (Snape’s Occlumency lesson) can be found in  Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix between pages 530 and 536.
> 
>  ** _Warnings_** : SS/HP pre-slash overtones and some rather intense **violence** at one point.
> 
>  ***Continuity:** “Behind These Cold Eyes” is the companion piece to “Balm in Gilead” and the third fic in the _J. Alfred Prufrock Arch_. It takes place after OotP and CONTAINS SPOILERS for Book 5.
> 
>  **Notes:**  
>  ** _Paragraphs_ separated like this: ( -------------------- ) and italicized are Harry’s thoughts as he’s watching the meeting. If the words are in quotes, those are Harry’s memories from Snape’s lessons. ** It’s all stream on consciousness (that, and I suck at writing Harry).  
>  _Also_ , the first quote is Severus’s POV and the second quote is about Harry (it’s massive all just foreshadowing!!). As is always the case, I recommend that you look at the quote in context of the source if you’re confused as to its application.
> 
>  
> 
> **Do not steal from me.**
> 
>  
> 
> Anywho, hope you like it! ^.~V

  
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

**“ _So ya thought ya might like to go to the show  
To feel the warm thrill of confusion—  
That space cadet glow.  
Tell me, is something eluding you, sunshine?  
Is this not what you expected to see?  
If you want to find out what’s behind these cold eyes  
You’ll just have to claw your way through this disguise._ ”**

**\- Pink Floyd  
 _The Wall_**

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***  


_T_ he room was a long rectangle; perhaps it had once been a dining room, but now most of the furniture had either been destroyed or moved to a different part of the house. Thick, slightly moth-eaten green carpets covered the wooden floor and dusty, weary looking chandeliers drooped heavily from the water damaged ceiling on their greenish, rusty hooks. Thin, gossamer strands of cobwebs straggled down from their once golden bows, giving them an ancient, forgotten air. Dozens of thick beeswax candles had been magicked to float in lazy clusters at seemingly random intervals throughout the room, providing the only light. Although it was nighttime, the once luxurious red velvet curtains were drawn tight over the windows, preventing any light from entering or escaping.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
 _  
It’s different this time._

_I try to empty myself of all emotion like you told me to, but instead I hear your voice._

“Well, Potter, you know why you are here. The Headmaster has asked me to teach you Occlumency.” __

_It’s like flying and floating and falling all at once._

_I try to block the dream._

“As I told you back in your dear godfather’s kitchen, Occlumency seals the mind against magical intrusion or influence.” __

_I’m not him . . . Or in him._

_I try to escape._

“I am about to attempt to break into your mind. We are going to see how well you resist.” __

_But I can’t._

“You let me get in too far. You lost control.” __

_I’m simply outside watching._

“You lost control.” __

_So it all just comes in vague and fuzzy—half felt._

_I think I prefer it this way._

_I’m not inside him. I know what’s me and what’s him. It’s too difficult to tell who’s who when I’m in him. Or he’s in me. I’m not sure anymore. But everything’s muted. I feel . . . detached._

_I can see him. Him and all the others. I can feel them, hear him. Are **you** here tonight? And why do I care?_

_I want to wake up._

“You’re not doing it, Potter . . . You will need more discipline than this . . . Focus, now . . .” __

_Get out of my head, Severus Snape._

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The only piece of furniture left in the room was a hideous, enormous black armchair raised up on a makeshift dais magically drawn out of the floor. The cobwebs had been swept away and some vague, half-hearted effort had been made to return it to what had to have once been velvet-clad majestic glory, but instead the tattered chair only gave off an atmosphere of rot and faded dignity. Stuffing jutted out from a large rip clawed into one arms and the covering was twisted and bunched. Perched in this monstrosity with all the poise of a decadent emperor lording over his decaying kingdom was Lord Voldemort. 

A large green snake was coiled menacingly at his feet and a semi-circle of black-clad, white masked men and women were standing around the dais, watching the spectacle before them with varying degrees of awe, amusement, and fear. The spectacle—a black-robed man writhing, shrieking, and foaming at the mouth on the floor before the dais—twitched sporadically beneath the Crucius Curse, watery blue eyes rolling up into the man’s head. Wormtail’s white mask had fallen off his face and shattered the instant he hit the floor and lay in four pieces of porcelain around the sweat-soaked halo of his straw-colored hair. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
 _  
Are you here? Did Dumbledore let you go tonight? Does he still trust you? I don’t see how he could. How anyone could. Because you killed him. I know you did. How many other people have you killed? How many like—_

_I want to laugh, but I’m afraid of how it will sound. Will it make a sound?_

_If a Potter falls in the manor and there are no Death Eaters around to hear him, does he make a sound?_

“We are going to see how well you resist . . .” __

_No?_

_What about a Black?_

_I want to wake up.  
_  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

One of the Death Eaters, a tall man with greasy looking black hair and coal black eyes, watched the former Marauder’s plight with little emotion. His body was perhaps a bit too tense and his hands clenched a bit too tightly, but otherwise he appeared to be the very picture of calm. The man next to him, a platinum blond with hair so light it was almost white and gray eyes so cold they looked like steel, occasionally shot him dark, angry looks. Wormtail gave a final, desperate sob and Voldemort raised his wand up, signaling an end to the punishment.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
 _  
But I can’t._

“Fools who wear their hearts proudly on their sleeves, who cannot control their emotions and allow themselves to be provoked this easily—weak people, in other words—they stand no chance against his powers!” 

‘I am not weak,’ _I told you._

_I am not weak._

_Are you?_

_I see you, Snape. Even underneath that white mask. It’s your eyes I see. Dark. Cold. Hateful. Empty. There’s nothing inside you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you so much it burns me inside. Is that weak?_

_Is that why I can’t wake up? Those eyes?_

_I feel strange, like there’s a buzzing in my head and a lump in my throat, though I don’t even know if I have a throat in this dream. Is it possible to feel my body in bed when I’m like this?_

_I think I’d rather be the snake._

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Death Eaters all raised their white faces to their master as he began to speak. 

“Wormtail . . .” Voldemort hissed menacingly.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
 _  
Does he say your name like that? Do you ever cringe? Do you have any heart at all? You taunted him about not being able to leave the house. You kicked me out of your office. You stopped my lessons. You didn’t listen to me in front of Umbridge and my scar always hurt so much after those lessons . . . What did you really do to me?_

“You let me get in too far.” __

_What are you doing to me?_

_And why do I not want you to be here?  
_  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The little blob of man remained huddled in a pile on the floor in front of the dais, occasionally whimpering. After a few moments, he pushed himself up on shaky arms and raised his slightly balding head to his master. A long trail of drool extended from his slack mouth to a small wet spot on the carpet. “M—m—master . . .?”

Voldemort shifted slightly, moving his weight from the right side of the chair to the left, and the snake—Nagini—hissed hatefully at Wormtail from his feet. “You disappoint me, Wormtail . . .” Voldemort hissed, drawing the man’s name out uncomfortably.

A silent ripple went through the Death Eaters and Wormtail’s mouth moved soundlessly for a moment. 

“Why . . .” Voldemort continued menacingly, “have you failed to bring me the Mirror?”

The Death Eater with the greasy hair seemed to lean forward a bit, appearing a bit anxious. The shift was subtle and nearly completely imperceptible, but one person—one who had made it his business to watch the other Death Eater—noticed the slight change immediately. The white-haired man’s cold eyes narrowed at the sight. The greasy man’s eyes flickered to those of his companion and he restrained himself. 

Wormtail looked horrified at the question and tried to backpeddle, getting tangled up in his robes instead. “M—m—master . . . . T—there were complications and—and—and . . .”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
 _  
I can hear him, but I can’t look away from you—can’t think to wonder about what he’s talking about. About what Wormtail’s begging for._

_It’s your eyes._

_Your eyes say that you did it—that you’re responsible. And I can’t seem to wrap my head around it because I know you did something or maybe nothing and that what happened is your fault, but I don’t want you here and I don’t want to be here and this is all your fault._

_Your fault._

_Why didn’t you deny it that day by the lake? Why didn’t you—_

_Why didn’t you—_

_Why couldn’t you have just lied to me and said that it wasn’t your fault?_

_I want to scream at you. Demand that you look away from Voldemort and Wormtail and whatever those empty, cold eyes see and LOOK AT ME. Tell me the truth or lie to me! Just—just—_

_Tell me **something**.  
_  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“ _Crucio._ ”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_I think I’m screaming. Or crying maybe . . ._

_I don’t think that it’s the curse._

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wormtail shrieked in agony and collapsed into a fetal position.

The greasy Death Eater’s left hand twitched.

After a moment Voldemort raised his wand, releasing the man.

“For—for—forgive—”

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
 _  
Why can’t I wake up? I don’t want to see you._

_I don’t want to see those eyes look so—_

_Let me go. I don’t understand this. Let me go._

“You lost control.” __

_Let me go!  
_  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Voldemort’s nonexistent lips stretched into a smile, revealing a thin, jagged line of unnatural teeth. “I am feeling merciful today, though Wormtail. You _are_ my trusted servant, my faithful Wormtail, are you not?”

Wormtail nodded frantically.

“Very well then, Wormtail. You have one more chance. You will retrieve for me the Mirror.” He paused. “Or you will be fed to my Nagini. A fair trade, yessssssssssss?”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
 _  
I don’t want to see anymore! I don’t want to see those eyes anymore! Your eyes. Your black, cruel eyes that looked so sad that day . . ._

_Close your eyes._

“Let go of all emotion . . .” __

 _Let me go.  
_  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wormtail continued his nodding.

Voldemort made a flicking motion with his hand, dismissing the man. He turned his flat face to the rest of his followers, red eyes narrowing slightly. “Severusssssssssssss . . .”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
 _  
Oh, God no . . ._

“Fools who wear their hearts on their sleeves . . .”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The greasy-haired Death Eater stepped forward and bowed. “My Lord?”

Voldemort’s cold eyes fixed on the Potions Master for a long moment, red irises glittering coldly in the firelight. “Severusssssss . . .” he hissed again, the long ‘s’ sounds drawing out much better than Wormtail’s name had. “Tell me, my Severussss, my childe . . . How is it that you have failed to find me more information about Potter’s muggle relations and that,” a thin lip curled into a sneer, “ _werewolf_ . . .?”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
 _  
. . . Remus . . .?  
_  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Snape drew himself up, making himself momentarily appear larger than he actually was. “My Lord, that fool Dumbledore—”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
 _  
NO!  
_  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
“ _Crucio._ ”

The man immediately dropped down to the ground, his thin body folding in on itself, crumpling with a sad sort of grace. Long fingered hands balled into fists and he dropped down to his side, tall body making spasmodic, thrashing movements as though caught in the final throes of a violent seizure. His mask jerked with surrealistic slowness over his face but didn’t fall off and a thin thread on saliva slipped down his chin. Choked, gasping whimpers emerged from beneath the porcelain. The arch of his back curled and uncurled desperately.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_sTOPiTsTOPiTsTOPiTsTOPiTsTOPiTsTOPiTSTOPIT_

_I can feel it inside me eating me alive. Your curse inside me—_

_Oh, **God**._

“Fools who wear their hearts on their sleeves—”

_STOPiTsTOPiTsTOPiTsTOPiTsTOPiTsTOPiTSTOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPIT_

_You don’t deserve this._

_But oh, Merlin, how I wish I wished you did . . ._

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Voldemort raised his wand and watched as the professor’s twitching faded to a slight, steady trembling of his hands. “Try again, Severussssss.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
 _  
Let me go. Stop holding me here with your damn eyes and LET ME GO! I want out of this!  
_  
“You lost control.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Trembling slightly, the other wizard pushed himself to his feet before once more turning his hidden face to Voldemort. He seemed to shudder. “My Lord, I fear I am no longer trusted . . . Potter sought to warn me of Black’s peril whilst being detained by the Umbridge woman and Dumbledore believes that I intentionally delayed the message in the hopes of seeking revenge against the boy’s do—godfather. Potter has confirmed this assessment. Because of this, Dumbledore will no longer trust me with anything he views as of great importance.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_I want to feel vindicated. Instead I feel sick._

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nagini shifted at her Master’s feet unhappily while Voldemort stared fixedly at his servant. After several long minutes the other Death Eaters began to shift imperceptibly, unnerved by the silence. Snape stared directly back at Voldemort, his body language somehow earnest, reverent, and appropriately awed and frightened all at the same time. Finally, a long, spindly-fingered hand emerged from Voldemort’s sleeve and one bone white digit gestured for Snape to come closer. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
 _  
You did it, didn’t you? Didn’t you?_

_Why can’t I hold back the sob in my throat? Why do I feel like—_

_Like—_

“Let go of all emotion.” __

_Like you’ve killed me too?_

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The man obeyed without hesitation, gliding forward with an impressive amount of his usual grace to kneel down at the right side of the foot of the dais and kiss the hem of Voldemort’s immaculate black robes. That same hand gently reached down and cupped Snape’s chin almost tenderly, thumb lifting the chin of Snape’s mask so that it came a loose and fell quietly to the floor and then guiding Snape’s head to rest on the armrest on the chair. Nagini hissed hatefully at the Potions Master.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
 _  
Let me out of this damned dream! I know all this. I don’t need to see anymore. Don’t want to!_

“You lost control.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Voldemort trailed a finger down from Snape’s left temple to the tip of his jaw and looked down at the man with almost paternalistic affection. “Severusss . . . my brave, idealistic, foolish Severusss . . . Give me your left hand, my little serpent.” 

Dark eyes remained expressionless as he obediently shifted slightly and then held out his left hand for the Dark Lord’s perusal. The older wizard took the proffered hand and began to examine it with apparent fascination, lightly drawing his wand over the lines crisscrossing the palm and up and down the long, graceful, yellowed fingers. Snape shivered at the sensation.

Voldemort drew his wand delicately along the heel of the other’s palm. “You didn’t delay the message, did you? No, not you my Severus . . . Not knowing that Black’s death would have been so advantageous . . . Not when I told you . . . I TOLD you, Severusss . . . that you were to be a good little White Hat and act as one of Dumbledore’s faithful sycophantsssss, did you? Not when I told you to play Dumbledore’s fool regardless of what you may or may not have thought my own plans were, did you? No. Not you. Not my bold little serpent . . . You wouldn’t have acted on your own? Questioned the orders of your Lord, your sworn Master . . . Would you? Not even for revenge on those who hurt you . . .?”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Yes. Say yes._

_Prove me right._

_Prove me right and then let me wake up from this damn dream and your damn eyes and this white noise between my ears that makes it so hard to think and the tearosesweetourYOU smell that makes my chest ache—_

“You let me get in too far.”

_Say yes and leave me alone, Severus Snape._

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A thin sheen of sweat shone on Snape’s skin in the candlelight, but his gaze never faltered. “No, my Lord.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_And I have the oddest feeling that I’ve closed my eyes, but I can still see everything . . . So this is what happens when you cry and you don’t have tears._

_I’m ready to wake up now.  
_  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“No . . .?” The trailing wand paused in the exact center of Snape’s palm as red eyes flickered down to stare into obsidian ones. “No . . .” The Dark Lord seemed to taste the word, savoring the sound of it in the air. “My slippery friend . . .” Voldemort looked back to the hand in his grasp. “I believe you.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Something inside me snaps, breaks and shatters, little bits of some wall I never knew coming down and hurting me so much that I can feel the shards slicing into my skin._

_Because you **had** to! You HAD to!! You hated us, hated us all, hate **me** so much that—that—that—_

_That you simply had to._

_Or else . . ._

_Or else it’s **my** fault . . . _

_Mine._

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Snape shifted uncomfortably as Voldemort continued to run the tip of his wand over his palm for a few more moments. Finally, either unable to maintain his position or to stand the sensation of the wands feather light brushing anymore, the professor cleared his throat. “My Lord . . .?”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Mine._

“Fools who wear their hearts proudly on their sleeves, who cannot control their emotions and allow themselves to be provoked this easily—weak people, in other words—they stand no chance against his powers!”

_And that’s not fair when it’s so easy to hate you._

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“What wonders you create with these hands of yours, Severusss . . . They are magnificent. Unique wonders of their field I am told . . . Such valuable toolsss, yesss?”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
 _  
Oh, let me go, Snape! Please, please, let me go! I don’t want to know what’s behind those eyes anymore. I don’t want to—_

_Why won’t you leave me alone?!_

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Snape’s already pallid face seemed to loose its remaining color. His voice came out in a dry, dusty whisper. “Yes, my Lord . . .”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_I want—_

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Voldemort smiled down at him benevolently as he carefully laid Snape hand down on the armrest, making sure that the fingers were fully splayed. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_I want—_

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A spider-like hand grasped Snape’s chin again and raised the man’s head up from the armrest so that he was kneeling with one hand on the armrest, the other at his side, and his back ramrod straight. Voldemort then reached down and plucked a tuft if cotton from the ripped arm of the chair, pointed his wand at it and muttered something under his breath. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_I want—_

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The bit of cotton transfigured into a hammer.

“Now pay close attention, Severusss.”

The hammer rose slowly and then descended on Snape’s hand so fast it was a blur in the air. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_I want Sirius!!_

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was a strange, wet, popping noise that was immediately followed by in inhuman cry of agony and Snape suddenly jerked back, damaged hand reflexively cradled protectively against his stomach and he fell backwards off the dais and onto the floor. He curled up entirely around his hand in a fetal position, half-screamed sobs ringing loudly in the chamber.

“Severusss . . .”

The fallen man shook his head wildly at the sound.

“Come here, Severusss. Now.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
 _  
Stop it! Stop it! LEAVE HIM ALONE!!!!_

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Choking back a sob, Snape half-crawled, half-staggered back up to Voldemort, his arm still desperately hidden. Voldemort gestured to the arm of the chair again, that same loving, benevolent smile fixed to his thin lips. Snape’s entire boy trembled, but he obediently laid removed his hand and laid it on the armrest again, squeezing his eyes shut to block the sight and clenching his jaw. Whatever tears he may have shed were dry, leaving only pale streaks on his sallow skin, and a thin line of bloody saliva trailed down his jaw from where it looked as though he’d bitten his lip.

“Open your eyes, Severusss. Watch.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_No! Nononononononononononondon’twanttoseethisdontwantto—_

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Black eyes opened with a look akin to despair and briefly locked gazes with Voldemort for an instant before looking at his pounding hand. He nearly wailed at the sight. The flesh of the impact point, directly in the center of the top of the palm, was a hideous greenish white in the center that turned to blackish purple at the edges. The blood vessels around that point had exploded from the force of the blow, but had not broken the skin and as a result his entire hand had immediately swollen. The tips of the fingers were unnaturally large and purple and the skin had taken on a strange glove-like appearance. 

The hammer rose once more. Snape moaned. The hammer fell.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_STOPIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Potions Master shrieked once again and pitched forward, slamming his forehead into the arm of the chair instead of jerking away. The other Death Eater watched, mute, as Voldemort allowed the hammer to slip through his long fingers. It transformed back into a tuft of cotton as it fell and gently floated the rest of the way to the ground. The Dark Lord gently ran a hand through his shaking servant’s hair and bent down slightly to whisper in his ear.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_no._

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After a moment he released his hold on Snape and sat back up. “You will find a way to ingratiate yourself with Dumbledore once again, my little serpent, and you will find a way to rid Potter of that thrice damned werewolf. Do you understand?”

Snape did not raise his head. “Y—yes, my Lord.”

“Excellent . . . You are in a very powerful position, Severusss . . . The very bed of my enemy. Our enemies. You will not disappoint me, will you, Severusss?”

“No, my Lord.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_no._

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Voldemort patted his head with mock affection. “Return to Hogwarts then and have that hand repaired. I’m sure that the good Healer there will have little trouble patching up such a nasty _accident_. You will no doubt think of some clever tale to tell her. You always excelled at clever tales, Severusss . . .”

Snape attempted to bow, but instead crumpled into a heap, dragging his savaged hand down to his stomach protectively once more as his forehead pressed against the ground. “Yes, my Lord . . . You are most merciful, my Lord.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Let me go, Severus Snape._

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From his position on the ground Snape watched with vacant interest as a trail of blood and spittle dripped from his mouth to the ground before he could gather the strength to Disparate with a dull pop.

  
**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**   


_I_ n the smallest bedroom of number 4 Privet Drive in Little Whinington a teenage boy sat up with a soft cry of distress, his hands flying to the burning ache of the scar tucked beneath his messy black hair as tears streamed down his cheeks. He sat very still for several minutes, knees drawn tight to his chest and hot palms pressed to his forehead.

A snowy white owl hooted in concern from her cage in the corner, but the boy ignored her. After a moment, he uncurled and moved to the foot of his narrow bed with shaky, unsteady motions. He reached over the edge of the footboard into an open trunk marked with the initials H.P. and a red and gold crest. After a few moments of fumbling in the dark he found a carefully folded bundle of heavy black clothe and pulled it out of the disorganized mess of scrolls, quills, books, trinkets, and inkwells he had dumped into the trunk haphazardly that evening. Once the clothe was safely extricated from the jumble, he clambered slowly back up the mattress with the same slow, painful looking movements. 

The owl hooted again, sounding both worried for her boy and disgruntled at being ignored. The youth avoided her yellow-eyed gaze, instead unfolding the clothe to reveal a large heavy cloak, far too large for his small frame, but obviously well-worn at one point in time. He stared blankly down at the blurry material, large green eyes unable to focus without his glasses. He made no attempt to reach for them, however. He should have thrown this away. Or insisted that Snape take it back. Or— 

He sighed and pulled it up under his chin, inhaling the odd mélange of scents that clung to the fabric, even after over a year. He didn’t try to recall the dream that had left him shaken, tearstained, and desperately in need of the odd comfort he could find only in the black folds of this cloak. He didn’t even try to calm the throbbing in his head or identify the inexplicable feeling of loss and . . . brokenness . . . shattering . . . in his chest. Like something inside him had been torn apart. Instead he clasped his hands together tightly and, trembling every so often, tried very, very hard to fight the tears in his eyes. He remained that way until the sun rose at the end of the street, flooding the well-trimmed lawn with light and pushing back the darkness with busy, insistent hands.

_“You let me get in too far. You lost control.”_

_Get out of my head, Severus Snape._

He sat that way for a very long time.

  
**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***  


  
**“ _‘The evidence before the court is incontrovertible.  
There’s no need for the jury to retire!  
In all my years of judging, I have never heard before  
Of someone more deserving the full penalty of law!  
The way you made them suffer, your exquisite wife and mother,  
Fills me with an urge to defecate!  
Since, my friend, you have revealed your deepest fear,  
I sentence you to be exposed before your peers!’_**  


  
**_“‘TEAR DOWN THE WALL!’_ ”**  


  
**\- Pink Floyd  
 _The Wall_**  


  
**~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~**  


  
**~ Fin**  


  
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**  


Continued in: **This Dream From Which We'll Wake and Go**  



	4. This Dream From Which We'll Wake & Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
> **_This Dream From Which We’ll Wake And Go_**  
>  \- Hanakai Mikakedaoshi  
> 7.15 – 27.2003  
> _______________________________________________________________  
> 
> 
> **Standard Disclaimer:** I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. I am not profiting from this.
> 
>  ** _Warnings:_** SS/HP pre-slash. 
> 
> ***Continuity:** This is the sequel to _Behind These Cold Eyes_ and is Verse 4 in the apparently never ending _J. Alfred Prufrock Arch_. 
> 
> **Notes:** Both quotes are Harry’s. ^^
> 
>  
> 
> **Do not steal from me.**
> 
>  
> 
> **Please Review.**  
> 

**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

**“ _Life is a dream—that knows no shade.  
Life is a dream—of pain and woe.  
A dream from which—we pray to wake.  
A dream from which—we wake and go._**

**_“Who would sleep—when the new dawn waits?  
Who would sleep—when the sweet winds blow?  
A dream must end—when the new day comes.  
This dream from which—we wake and go._ ”**

**_Aiel Funeral Dirge_  
\- Robert Jordan  
A Crown of Swords**

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**

_I_ pause, teapot frozen in midair in my right hand, feeling ridiculously guilty for a moment. As though I’ve been caught doing something wrong. Which I haven’t, of course—last time I checked, insomnia was perfectly legal—but the feeling persists. A small black bag, my own special blend of tea leaves and herbs, hits his frail chest instead of landing on the table I’d thrown it at and he blinks at me owlishly from behind his glasses. The yellowish light in the kitchen shines down on him, making his shadow stretch out too far behind him and unattractively accentuating his pale skin and the darkened hollows of his cheeks and eyes. He looks skeletal. Emaciated. 

I turn back to the stove and set the teapot down on the burner with a careful, controlled motion, curse myself silently. It’s been a very, very long time since I was last caught unaware and this house makes me a good deal jumpier than most other places. I’m not at all in proper form lately. I was a fool to allow Albus to coerce me into remaining here for the next five days. I should have flooed to Hogwarts as soon as the meeting adjourned.

But that would have left him all alone. Alone.

The Black household has never been any place for children, even a child as remarkable as Harry Potter.

I can feel his presence in the doorway of the kitchen; hear him breathing my air, invading my space . . . Technically, though, I suppose that it’s actually _his_ space now. Black left him everything from the mansion to the titles to the very last knut in the Black Family Vault. Potter was named the sole beneficiary of the estate at the beginning of June, though Merlin only knows what legal hoops Albus had to jump through to accomplish _that_ particular bit of wizardry. Narcissa Malfoy was reportedly furious.

The thought amuses me more than it probably should.

“Do you plan on standing there all night, Mr. Potter, or did you actually want something?” 

There’s a sharp intake of breath behind me, a small, pained noise. I didn’t mean for my voice to come out like that. So . . . cruel . . . But it did anyway. I repress a sigh and light the burner beneath the teapot.

Wonderful. I’ve only been alone with the boy for five hours and I can already feel a migraine coming on.

Curse Lupin anyway. _He_ should be here, not me, and the full moon be damned. Potter has made it fairly obvious that he wants nothing to do with me and if I had a single grain of common sense, I’d count my blessings and put as much space between myself and the boy as humanly possible. I hear Japan is lovely this time of year . . .

If I had a single grain of common sense. 

I feel almost giddy at the thought—far, far, far too amused. I _need_ to get sleep, but I have a better chance of teaching Granger’s monstrosity of cat to sing “The Lass of Glenshee” than of getting a decent night of sleep in this house.

For a moment he says nothing, but then the soft smack of bare feet sounds across the cracked linoleum. My mouth tightens.

The bag I had thrown at the table as he walked in is set silently on the counter next to my right arm and Potter turns around, obviously preparing to leave again. My mouth opens before I can stop myself. “Trouble sleeping?”

The boy pauses in the doorway again, but I firmly resist the urge to turn around and look at him. Last week when Moody returned to headquarters with Potter in tow, the boy had had a vague, apathetic look about him: too pale, too thin, too washed-out looking. It wasn’t natural. Albus immediately closeted himself away with boy and the paranoid one-eyed coot before anyone could say a word, only to emerge five minutes later with that damnable twinkle and announce that Potter would stay here until the beginning of the term.

Naturally, he offered no explanation. 

“Dreams,” Potter mutters almost inaudibly, interrupting my thoughts. “Sir.”

I ignore the carelessly tacked on honorific and frown at the teakettle, willing it to reach a boil and give me an excuse to end this conversation. “I thought the Headmaster had resumed your Occlumency lessons . . .?”

“He did, sir.” 

Boil, damn you. 

My mouth moves, apparently now completely independent of the rest of my body. Observe the wonders of fatigue in action. “Are they not helping?” Not that it’s my business to _care_ if they’re helping. “Perhaps you are not applying yourself. Certainly the Headmaster’s training can meet your vaunted Potter standards where mine was found lacking. He is only one of the most qualified wizards on the planet, let alone in the whole of Europe. Surely _he_ can motivate you, Mr. Potter?” 

_Where I could not._

The thought is petulant and frustrated and for a brief moment I wonder if somehow that came through in my inflection.

Maddeningly, the teakettle refuses to whistle.

I regret the cruel words on a distant, clinical level—the way one regrets the shrill squeals a lobster makes when being boiled alive. But I’m too tired to pity him. Twelve Death Eater meetings the past twelve nights in a row, each time the Dark Lord more angry at me than the last. An angry Lord Voldemort is not conducive to restful sleep—provided that I manage to get to sleep at all. And now nearly a week of my summer locked up in this accursed architectural atrocity with the Golden Boy of Gryffindor. I close my eyes briefly. Pepper-Up potions only go so far and the resulting “crash” after extended use is intensely unpleasant.

Weariness drags at me like shackles, drawing me down and binding me to this place. My left hand aches fiercely from Voldemort’s “punishment” two weeks ago. Poppy fixed it up easily—all the while shooting Albus nasty looks and muttering under her breath—but she told me that it may hurt on occasion and that I’d now be much more susceptible to rheumatism there. The news pained me to no small extreme; my hands are my livelihood and one my few physical features that I regard with any sort of pride.

Potter does not respond to my insults and after a moment I hear his footfalls head into the adjacent dining room. 

I glare at the teapot. 

And there’s yet another thing to worry over; the more time I spend around Potter, the more I worry. It was only obvious that Black’s death would affect him negatively, but I had never expected anything like _this_. I occasionally recall the last day of last term when we were out at the lake with shudders of both shame and horror. Shame for allowing myself such an indiscretion and horror at what my foolish slip of emotion may eventually cost me.

Potter’s hardly brilliant in the academic sense of the word, but he’s not dumb either, and he has an intensely disconcerting way of storing up seemingly random information for extended periods of time, only to put it all together to form a cogent—and usually previously unnoticed—pattern at the most inconvenient times. I have no desire to attempt to rouse him from his malaise in my current state. This level of sleep deprivation makes me sloppy and I am in absolutely no mood for the mental gymnastics that Potter always manages to force me through.

The teakettle whistles shrilly, demanding that I acknowledge it. Perhaps I should have warmed some milk instead. Somehow I don’t know if I should trust myself with tea tonight. There’s a slight hiss as the herbs hit the water, immediately followed by the scent of peaches. That would be from the ground up peach pits, I recall vaguely. I stare into the teapot for a moment. This particular mix is something that I came up with last year to get me to sleep after those damnable Occlumency lessons. It’s a fairly strong mix—not something I’d stock in the infirmary. Particularly since it has several ingredients in common with veritiserum and it can be highly toxic if too much is taken at once. Not to mention that those who do not drink it carefully are then prone to babbling whatever weighs on their soul at the moment. They don’t spout out endlessly verbose streams of secrets; the mix is _not_ as potent as veritiserum. But they are a good deal more prone to saying what they truly think. Normally, though, that’s not even an issue as the side affects don’t have time to activate before the sleeping additives do. I close the pot up again and raise the flame a bit higher to medium. The bag vanishes into one of the pockets in my robe. I eye the now silent pot in irritation for a moment. A small stream of steam rises lazily from the mouth of the kettle’s spout. 

I imagine I can hear the boy fidgeting in the dining room.

. . .

This is absolutely ridiculous.

I push myself away from the stove and head to the doorway. My steps feel unnaturally slow. This is absolutely _ridiculous_! I am _not_ afraid of a fifteen year old boy, regardless of what his damn eyes look like, or how green they are!

I am not—

“Do you plan on standing there all night, Professor Snape, or did you actually want something?”

 _Infuriating_ whelp!

I can just see it now: _“So sorry, Albus. The boy asked me a question and I just snapped. Don’t worry though, once we find all the bits and pieces, I’m sure that Poppy will be able to fix the boy up. In the meanwhile, my resignation will be on your desk come morning._

Oh, _yes_. That would be simply smashing.

I swirl my way over to the table menacingly and glare at the top of the boy’s head in frustration. My visual persona is useless when the object of my attention is far more interested in frowning at his knobby red knuckles rather than being intimidated. The brat.

I sit down in the chair opposite him and stare fixedly at where his eyes would be if he looked up. After several moments of silence I clear my throat and say in a bland, disinterested voice, “In the room the women come and go talking of Michelangelo.”

His head snaps up and he blinks in stunned confusion, large, round eyes wide. Their now typical kicked puppy look has been replaced by bewilderment and I feel a distinct surge of satisfaction. 

“What?”

The pot whistles again and I stand, ignoring his question in favor of the tea. The scent of chamomile and peaches greets my nose as I enter the kitchen and I remove the kettle from the burner. Potter is still sitting at the table when I return with the teapot, a strainer, and two teacups and saucers. I set one of the cups on the saucers and place it on the table in front of him. I do the same for myself and then pour us each a cup of tea, straining the leaves through the strainer as I pour. 

He’s small. A half a cup will be more than enough. More than that would probably put him into a barbiturate coma. While I see only sunny optimism in that future, I’m sure Albus would disagree.

Once I’ve finished, I reclaim the chair across from him. “It is from a poem, Mr. Potter. A muggle poem, to be precise. Not that I’d expect anything of any culture or sophistication to stick in that Gryffindor brain—or rather the lack thereof.”

It takes him a moment to process the insult. When he seems to understand what I’ve said, instead of insulting me he frowns at his hands again. I scowl, disappointed by his unresponsiveness to my prodding, and wrap my long fingers around my teacup.

_“You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, Severus.”_

Shut up and leave me to my shortcomings, Albus.

Potter stares into his teacup blankly. I pointedly ignore his unspoken question and take a deep swallow of my tea; it scalds my tongue painfully and burns my throat on the way down.

The boy swirls the amber liquid in his cup, still refusing to meet my gaze. “What are you doing still up?” he demands suddenly.

 _Talking of Michelangelo._

I bite the tip of my tongue to keep back the words and instead reward his query with an expression of the utmost contempt. He doesn’t see it. I loathe this child. “Making tea.”

“. . . Oh . . .”

The silence is heavy and awkward and for a moment my resolve not to be frightened away by a boy wavers dangerously. My teacup clinks heavily into its saucer and I frown at it, wondering impatiently when the brew will take affect. 

I wonder if Molly thought to leave a few scones behind . . .

“I’msorry.”

The words stumble out of his mouth rapidly, falling on my ears in a disorganized jumble that takes a moment to untangle. I look over at him curiously, but he’s still staring into his untouched teacup. His shoulders are hunched almost painfully, giving the impression that he’s trying to sink into his seat and vanish. 

I take a measured, controlled sip of tea. He shifts unhappily. 

“Sorry?” It’s more of an effort than perhaps it should be to keep malice out of my voice. “Whatever for?”

For being? For being you? For invading my privacy? For invading my life? For having eyes that earnestly green or such an impatient mouth? For being so proud? So arrogant? So stupid? So hopelessly _Potter_?

The possibilities are endless.

He hunches over more, as though it were possible, and through the parted crows nest of his hair I can see that his face is pale and his cheeks are bright cherry red with . . . mortification . . .?

He suddenly looks disturbingly attractive.

I take a quick swallow of tea, almost choking on it and slightly disappointed when I don’t.

“That day . . . by the lake . . .” His mouth works silently for a moment as he continues to stare downward, unaware that I feel as though my very breath hangs on his next word. 

I clutch my teacup tightly and will the stupid boy to shut up.

He suddenly picks up his tea with startling determination, sloshing some of it over the edge carelessly, and downs the whole thing as though the beverage could fortify him for whatever he’s preparing to say. Some of it spills, small trickles running down his chin onto his nightclothes. It occurs to me that he really, really probably should not have done that. Green eyes rise to spear me, looking almost ridiculous in their earnestness, and I have a sudden overpowering urge to flee, dignity be hanged. 

“I didn’t mean—I mean, I meant . . .” he babbles breathlessly, leaning forward over table. A single amber drop of the potion hangs precariously his chin. He’s all adolescent awkwardness and desperation and I feel oddly lightheaded. I tell myself that it’s the tea. 

He falters again charmingly at my impassivity and for a strange moment it seems as though the teacup swells in my hand. There is resistance, and then . . . 

He leaps to his feet, hitting table and sending his tea everywhere in the process, at the exact moment I register a dull popping noise and the sharp pain in the palm of my left hand. “Sir!”

I look away from bright green eye to stare numbly at the shards of my teacup as hot fluid drips steadily off the table and onto my robes. A small shard of white porcelain is imbedded in my left palm and a surprisingly liberal flow of blood mingles with the spilled tea.

Potter is moving towards me. Blathering about blood and hands and something else, but I can’t seem to focus on him. I stare at the blood and remember that exact same shade of red. Reflected off the rippling waters of the lake.

_“Potter—”_

_“Don’t call me that.”_

_“. . . Potter . . . Potter . . . **Harry**.” _

My hand aches horribly.

And then he touches me. “Let me see.”

Before I can think to lurch away or give voice to the scream that’s somehow worked his way into my throat, soft hands grip my wounded hand and pull it towards a pale, youthful face marred by an alarming mix of exhaustion, fear, and consternation.

Soft hands. Smooth skin broken only by one or two fleshy calluses forged by long hours of Quidditch. Warm hands. Pale, unstained skin—

“Let me go.” I sound hoarse and panicked—not at all like myself. I can feel the horrible warmth of a flush crawling up my neck. 

He ignores me and gently pulls the teacup sliver from my skin. I don’t feel it. 

_“I **hate** you!! You’re the spy. You could have known! Should have known! They died because of you!”_

_“Harry, stop!”_

_“It should have been you!”_

I close my eyes, unsure whether I’m trying to banish the memories, or the sight of him stand over me and looking so bloody . . . concerned.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I—

“Harry, stop.”

Is that weak and rusted sound truly my voice?

_“It should have been you!”_

The boy doesn’t seem to hear me. “I just—I mean, I saw . . . that night . . . I saw what he did to you and it wasn’t right and I didn’t want to want anyone to hurt like that—not even you—and I kept hearing you in my head—I mean, remembering what you told me—”

“Potter.”

He stops and freezes, still cradling my injured hand to him as though it were something of consequence. His grip tightens. He does not look up.

 _Harry._ “Let me go.” _Let me go._

Small fingers twitch open weakly and my hand seems to drop into my lap of its own accord. I want to slap him. Slap him or—

“What do you want from me?” I feel as though a stranger is using my mouth and so I try to look away, but I can’t. Everything seems disconnected, as though I’m experiencing the world through a thin layer of gauze. He bites his lower lip hard for an instant before worrying the pale sliver of flesh between small, sharp teeth.

I finally turn away, feeling obscenely voyeuristic. 

“I . . .” He trails off pathetically and I can almost hear the little gears in his head whirring as he attempts to find the answer to my question. Then we both realize the truth and he suddenly looks so hopelessly miserable that I feel nauseous. “I . . . don’t know, sir.”

For some reason I ache to hold him. Instead I run my right ring finger over one of the larger pieces of my crushed teacup. My robes are soaked with spilt blood and tea and my left hand throbs dully, barely something worth noting. 

Go away, boy. Go away and leave me to my aching misery and my old wounds and my bitter, twisted imaginings.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again.

I explode. “ _Stop being so bloody sorry, boy!!_ ” 

I can’t contain the roar that tears from my throat and my body rises, knocking my chair over, and twisting to loom over him menacingly. A part of me wants to stop. A part of me want to beat his pretty head into the wall until the blood runs down the old paint, staining it a marvelous red, and those horribly green eyes of his still, their accursed fire quenched, never to scorch me again. I refuse to acknowledge what any other parts of me may want.

Perhaps a bit of my desperate, exhausted madness is showing in my eyes. I can feel tiny flecks of spittle land on my cheeks and I’m trembling wildly. Whatever the case, his eyes go wide and he backs away, not quite cringing, but not quite standing, either.

“Sorry never fixed anything, Potter. Sorry never erased the memory of a wrong. Sorry never healed a broken mind, or soothed a vengeful spirit! Sorry will never erase the blood on your hands or on mine! Sorry will never bring back your parents, or Diggory, or Black! Your sorrys are useless on me! Go drown yourself in them and happily leave me in peace, or, if you cannot do that, then at least have the courtesy to sit quietly and choke on them. But don’t throw them at me.” My voice—yes, that noise is indeed my voice—drops to a cruel hiss. “The damned are the damned, Potter and sorrys will neither save them nor save their victims. Sorrys are useless, as are the people who hide behind them.”

“I—” He bumps into a wall. 

I continue moving forward. “Whatever you think you saw, whatever you think you’ve _learned_ , Mr. Potter, I suggest you forget! I _know_ what I am, so spare your pathetic psuedo-understanding and your broke down philosophies. I neither need, nor want, nor deserve your compassion or your sorrys!” The word sounds vile coming out of my mouth. I swallow around it and taste bile. “Everything you’ve heard, every whisper in the hall and rumor slipped beneath the doors about me is true. All that and more. Does that satiate your damnable curiosity? Is that what you want to hear? All you need to know is that I am the sum and total of those scribbled notes bitten off words, and run-on sentences. People are only what the world makes of them, Potter, and the sooner you learn that, the better off you’ll be!” I stop no more than eight inches in front of him, choking on my own impotent, depthless, rage.

He watches me for a few moments, our panting breaths mingling in the silence of the Manor. Eventually, he looks up at me and his eyes are eerily lucid. I wipe futilely at my mouth, trying to clean the spittle off my face. I feel naked and unbalanced under those eyes.

He pushes himself off the wall and looks at me loosely, lips slightly pursed. “Then I’d be six feet tall, richer than Malfoy, smarter than ‘Mione, more powerful than Dumbledore, spoiled rotten, a murder, a liar, a madman, a fool, a hero, the greatest Seeker in the world, and either the next Head Boy or the next Voldemort.”

I wince involuntarily at the name, but don’t look away from his eyes. “Then perhaps you are.” I turn away from him, mindnumblingly tired, and stumble gracelessly back to my seat. I pick of the chair and slump into it bonelessly, to hell with dignity. By this point in time, it’s a futile effort anyway.

He watches me. “I’m not,” he whispers quietly. I wish he would shut up. 

“I’m not,” he repeats in a stronger voice. I close my eyes tiredly as he continues: “There’s more to me than that, and less.” His voice is smooth and even. 

I relax into it. “Perhaps there is, Mr.—”

“Don’t call me that.”

I feel a muscle in my right cheek tick. “. . . Perhaps there is, Harry,” _I know there is_ , “but who will care? Your friends? The Headmaster? The lovely Miss Chang? The Dark Lord . . .?” 

_Me . . . Me . . . Me . . . Me . . ._

I make no effort to silence the treacherous voice within me.

“I don’t know . . .” He comes over to me and looks down at me with an expression i can’t place. “Someone.”

_Me . . . Me . . . Me . . . Me . . ._

I look away. What are doing to me, boy? What have you done to me? “And what will that gain you?” I find myself playing with jagged shards of porcelain again.

“I don’t know . . .”

“What do you want it to gain you . . .? Do you even know what you want anymore, Harry?” _Harry . . ._

He’s silent for a long moment. I turn back to see him frowning at the floor, his forehead creased with worry and trepidation. He looks too old. Too old by far.

My poor, poor Harry . . . My poor Gryffindor . . .

“Harry?” And my voice is gentler than I ever thought it could be. I revel in the sound of it.

The boy’s head snaps up and he tenses suddenly, looking as though he’s about to attack me. “I want . . . I want . . . I want _TIME_!!! I want to just—I want them all to leave me alone! I don’t want anyone else to die! _I_ don’t want to die! Not like that. Not like . . .”

I stare at him for a moment, rendered dumb by the horrible, horrible pain in his voice. My poor boy . . . It’s not pity I feel for him; it’s pain. Raw unadulterated pain. As those words poured from his mouth, I knew that I would burn the world and use my soul for tinder if only I could see him safely through all this. If only I could ease his sorrow. But I cannot.

My poor Harry.

I move before I quite know what I’m doing, long arms wrapping around that narrow waist and pulling him down into my lap, holding him close, holding him tight. 

My Harry. My Harry.

He curls into me marvelously well, fitting into all the hollows I never knew I had. His head lies comfortably on my weak chest and he pulls himself into a tight ball next to me instead of pulling away like I thought he would. Like I know he should.

“I don’t want to die.”

“. . . Then don’t,” I whisper into his hair. He smells like grass and juniper. 

_Don’t die. Don’t leave me. Don’t—Don’t . . . Don’t go . . ._ “Don’t.”

He trembles in my arms, trying so hard not to cry that I wonder why he doesn’t cry out from that effort alone. I hold him close and curse myself, knowing that this is the only respite I can offer him. He clutches at my sleeves and I resolve not to let him go. Not to let him fade.

Not to let him die.

I will not relinquish what is mine. And this—what he’s given me here and now—is mine. _Mine_. 

And the rest of the world can rot.

 _Do I dare disturb the Universe?_ Will I receive that fateful moment when everything can be revisited, revised, reversed, tested, and made right again? Or perhaps I have already missed it.

He trembles beautifully in my arms and I long to crush him into me, to hear him gasp in shocked pain and feel those marvelously fragile ribs crack against me. Pop and break and tear and rip through the living fabric of his skin. Because I don’t think that I can bear to watch him suffer like this. Not if it’s only to die. To burn in a flash, leaving only a mild sense of heat and burnt retinas in his wake. It’s not fair. Not to him, not to me, not to anyone. I wrap my arms a bit more securely around him, but my body is wiser than I and I can hold him no tighter.

His breath smells like chamomile and peaches. I inhale deeply and feel him relax against me as the tea finally takes affect and he sinks into a reluctant, unquiet slumber. 

Soon I will have to stand and carry him up to his rooms. Soon I will have to pour myself another cup of tea and sit alone in the silence of Black Manor. Soon morning will come with it’s full, obnoxiously vibrant force and I will have to face green eyes, and a mouth that doesn’t smile quite like that of a normal boy, and the small, uncomfortable yet gracefully shuffling movements of a stumbling, brash, clumsy adolescent boy that I can no longer force myself to see quite as a stumbling, brash, clumsy adolescent boy. And soon I will have to figure out exactly what I _do_ see him as, before he comes to conclusions that I am too afraid to face.

Soon.

But—for now—I will simply sit here and hold him tight, quietly disturbing the Universe in my own tired way.

  
**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***   


  
**“ _Wide awake on an ocean of silence  
Wide awake in soft lullabies  
Linen shadows floating through open sashes  
All in the touch of mother's eyes._**   


  
**_Hold me, a child in your arms,  
Hold me, please hold me.  
Water marked sky of tears that I cried is floating so high  
All in the touch of a mother's eyes  
Stung by the salt of weeping skies  
Cheek to cheek with last goodbyes._ ”**   


  
**\- Jump, Little Children  
 _Mother’s Eyes_**   


  
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***   


  
**  
_~ Fin_   
**   


  
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**   



	5. And While the King Was Looking Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
> **_And While the King Was Looking Down_**  
>  \- Hanakai Mikakedaoshi  
> 8.7.2003  
> _______________________________________________________________  
> 
> 
> **Standard Disclaimer:** I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ was written by T.S. Elliot. I am not profiting from this.
> 
>  ** _Warnings:_** SS/HP slash. (See, see! I’m slowly ( _very_ slowly) moving up in the world! ^_^ )
> 
>  ***Continuity:** This is the sequel to _This Dream From Which We’ll Wake and Go_ and is Verse 5 of _J. Alfred Prufrock Arc_. *wails* It never ends! It never ends!
> 
>  **Notes:** Both quotes are Severus’s POV. Kudos and a No-Prize (*steals from Stan Lee*) to the person who can identify the source of the title!
> 
>  ** _On that note,_** MASSIVE accolades must be given to **_Telanu_** and her bloody _MARVELOUS_ “Tea” Series if you haven’t read it, go read it now! (She archives at  Walking the Plank and her own site The Rag and Bone Shop). The first story in this arc, _You’re Standing on My Neck_ WAS inspired by (but has **nothing** to do with) her work, but the rest of the Prufrock Arc was spawned entirely separate of the “Tea” Series. I mentioned that somewhere before . . . (this is what I get for cross posting). The reason why I’m making this known now is because one of her stories is called _Almost, at times, the Fool_ and I’ll be damned if I relinquish my affection for the Severus/Prufrock relationship just because another, more talented author noticed it before me and I was 5 stories deep into an arc when I realized my error. ^.^;;;;;;;;;;; Which is just _sad_ given the sheer amount of times I’ve read her fics. *hangs her head in absolute shame* So please don’t think that I’ve ripped anything from her; as far as I know, my corner of the cosmos has yet to catch her eyes, so I cannot say whether or not she would feel infringed upon. However, I adore her work and would never knowingly do that. If anyone is being damaged by my attempts at prose, it’s the works and skills of T.S. Elliot, J.K. Rowling, and the various authors and musicians I’ve quoted. If, however, you have problems or questions, please email me and address them to me privately. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Do not steal from me.**
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy!

**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

**“ _There will be time, there will be time  
To prepare a face for the faces that you meet;  
There will be time to murder and create,  
And time for all the works and days of hands  
That lift and drop a question on your plate;  
Time for you and time for me,  
And time for yet a hundred indecisions,  
And for a hundred visions and revisions,  
Before the taking of toast and tea._**

**_In the room the women come and go  
Talking of Michelangelo._ ”**

**\- T.S. Elliot  
 _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_**

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**

_C_ ontrol. It’s such a small idea, really. The ability to foresee and manipulate the circumstances around one. It doesn’t seem very large or very difficult at all, does it? Yet I rapidly seem to be losing what little control I had. Perhaps that is what maturity truly is—that awful secret that Albus is always twinkling about and lording over us lesser wizards and mortals . . . Maturity is nothing more than a gradual, inevitable, irreversible loss of control. Control over oneself, one’s environment, one’s world . . .

How depressing. The summation of my life is a brand on my arm, a stuffed vulture hat, and a pair of green eyes with an unhappy mouth that no longer laughs.

I slouch bonelessly in my chair, dignity completely abandoned. After the debacle that the last week has been, I seriously doubt I have any dignity left anyway. The boy sits across the table from me, calmly reading his transfiguration text in silence. Occasionally his quill scratches on the parchment to his right. I can hear him breathing. I prod restlessly at the now cold bowl of rice in front of me and attempt to pretend to be interested in the book in front of me. 

Lupin will be back tomorrow, no doubt bearing gifts and hugs and that stupidly optimistic grin of his. I resent him more than I should. By all rights I should be happy. 

Tomorrow I get to return to my holiday solitude where the only breathing, scratching, or page rustling is my own. I miss the cool and dark of my chambers, but somehow the idea of returning to them seems unbearably empty. It’s not as though Potter and I have kept one another great company. In the four days since our late night tea, we’ve perhaps exchanged five whole sentences. The silence is uncomfortable and heavy, and though my exhaustion no longer plagues me, both myself and the boy seem to be growing more and more listless as the days pass. The circles beneath his eyes, I am ashamed to note, have not receded and he seems to be losing weight at an alarming rate.

Not that it’s my concern.

_Liarliarliarliarliarliarliar . . ._

I turn back to my book, mouth set in a firm, unyielding line.

A page rustles; it isn’t me. 

I can feel his eyes on me.

“I was thinking . . . perhaps I might give potions a go this term . . .” 

The boy’s voice cracks on the last word and I look up despite myself. He’s watching me. 

After a moment of silence I slowly raise a single inquisitive eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Ummm . . .” He blushes for reasons I don’t care to speculate on and hunches over slightly. The light catches on his glasses, obscuring his eyes in twin pools of white. “Yes . . . I didn’t do very badly on my OWLS . . . Did I . . .? I—”

I close my book and stand slowly, repressing a wince as a few of my bones crack in harsh accusation. To be honest, I really can’t recall how anyone but Granger and Malfoy did on the OWLS. Both received Outstandings. Whatever the House of Gryffindor may think, I have never had the need to pad Draco Malfoy’s grades. The boy is quite remarkable enough in his own right without my meddling. Of course, this does not alleviate the urge to snap his impertinent, pretty young neck.

The boy’s eyes are still trained on me, large, innocent, and hopeful. The word ‘ruin’ flashes through my mind and I turn away, disgusted with myself. I stare into my still full bowl of rice. 

“Sir?”

“Advanced Potions is not for the fools, nor those who would fancy themselves the saviors of students with lesser abilities, Mr. Potter. Nor is it for those who seek to leach off their peers in a lukewarm attempt to disguise their own lack of talent.” That was not what I meant to say.

From the corner of my eye I see the boy flinch slightly. “I’ve been studying, though.” 

He sounds so desperately crestfallen that I find my eyes wandering towards him again. I surrender to the impulse and turn to face him. His eyes widen a bit as I begin to approach. “You’ve been . . . studying?”

A slow blink. Boys should most certainly _not_ blink like that. “Um . . . Yessir . . .”

I tilt my head slowly to the side and feel a small thrill at the hunted expression that flits over his face. “And that means what to me, Mr. Potter?”

He doesn’t look away. “Don’t call me that.” 

My eyes narrow and I suddenly feel as though I’ve just lost the advantage. Lost control. 

The boy meanwhile frowns slightly and straightens in his chair. I can almost see his backbone firming. “I think I could do really well this term.” He releases a slight, huffing little breath and flushes that inexplicable dusty rose color again. He drops his head, peering up at me through thick lashes. “If you’ll let me.”

I freeze, lost somewhere between that flush and those fluttering lashes. It takes a moment for his words to sink in. I shake my head slightly and the spell is broken. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Po—”

“Harry,” he has the gall to correct me in a non-compromising voice.

“ _Harry_ ,” I bite out in aggravation. “Exactly what are you implying?”

He gives me another of those lingering blinks. He has no idea what he’s doing to me. He can’t. If he did he’d be horrified. 

By all rights, _I_ should be horrified. The fact that I’m not is merely proof of the fact that I’ve discovered new levels of debauchery to which one can fall. 

A muscle quirks at the corner of his mouth. “I think I could do better than I’m doing. Sir.”

I lean in close to him, close enough to smell the soft bite of his soap. I remind myself that he’s fifteen. “I do not, nor have I ever, tampered with Gryffindor’s grades. You pass or fail on your own merit, Po—” He leans forward and I suddenly choke. 

“I told you, _sir_.” He smells like ginger, dust, and grass. “Don’t call me that.”

I pull away hastily and find myself gasping for air. For a moment he stares at me, his pale face an odd combination of confusion, irritation, relief, and disappointment. I look away and sway suddenly on my feet as I immediately understand what dark specter has haunted my thoughts of the boy as of late.

_Oh, Merlin._

I wanted to kiss him.

I swallow hard and find myself leaning heavily on the table, small tremors moving through my arms as they brace my body. He’s watching me. I would gouge his eyes out if I thought it would make this feeling go away.

“. . . Sir . . .?”

_Shut up._

I drag in a ragged breath.

“Are you alright, sir?”

Slowly my gaze swivels to him and the room dances drunkenly around us. He’s close to me. Too close. I can feel the heat of his body through my robes.

“Sir?”

I should leave. Now.

His hands suddenly arrest my attention, pale bits of carved porcelain clutching urgently at the edge of the table. So much safer than those eyes. They’re small hands—not at all the kind I thought would suit a Seeker of his skill. His father had large hands. Perhaps he inherited them from Evans. _He’s only a boy._ The nails are just the barest slivers of crescent, white and soft-looking with a thin layer of dirt crowded beneath them. _Only fifteen years old._ The knuckles are red and look slightly raw, as though he’d been worrying them for quite some time. _Just a child._ The fingers are slightly tapered, the pads blunt and sensitive looking. Well suited for gripping. _Fifteen. Just fifteen._

My God.

My God.

“Sixteen, sir.”

_A boy._

I’m shaking. His voice sounds hazy and far away.

One of those surprisingly small hands rises and cups my cheek and I flinch. His skin is cool. The hand tilts my face towards him, back to those green eyes. He looks sad. Confused. Determined. Tired.

“I’m sixteen, sir. The day before yesterday.”

_What have you done to me, boy?_

His brow creases delicately, the skin bunching up in consternation and his little flower bud mouth pouting. “Sir? I’ve done nothing.”

And I’ve been speaking out loud.

The child’s thumb moves slightly, gently stroking the sensitive skin beneath my right eye. My mouth moves, but no sound emerges. The hand slides down a bit and his thumb lightly traces the shallow bow of my upper lip. Large green eyes follow the path of his thumb and he takes a step closer to me.

Ginger, dust, and grass. Moonlight, autumn, and the tang of raw power unexplored.

The thumb slides down to the jutting slope of my chin. I cannot move.

“What is this, sir?” His voice is a breathy, feather soft whisper that I have to strain to hear in the silence between us.

 _Me._ “I don’t know.” _Us._ My hands grip the table so hard they ache. “We should stop.” _Everything._

His eyes flicker up to mine and he looks pained suddenly. I stand, pulling away from him; I never knew that a floor could be so fascinating.

_It’s everything._

Potter makes an odd little choked noise in his throat and for a moment I think he’s laughing. I scowl and turn, prepared to tear into him for making a fool of me, but the words die on my lips.

A thin trickle of blood slips down his chin as a small eyetooth punctures his lower lip. His arms are wrapped tightly around him as though he were holding himself together and the look on his face is . . .

Dreadful.

I want to kiss him. Instead I clench my fists and set my jaw. “Mr. Potter—”

He whirls and takes a step forward and I retreat instinctively, one hand raised to shield myself from a blow that isn’t coming. 

“I’m sixteen!” I open my mouth, but he overruns me. “Stop treating me like I’m made out of glass or something! Stop treating me like Ron and ‘Mione and Dumbledore and Professor Lupin do! I haven’t gone crazy. You don’t need to mind your tongue or—or—” 

He stops and looks around, appearing utterly bereft. Raw hands scrub his face abruptly, further mussing his hair and leaving disconcerting red and white streaks over his cheeks. He peers out at me and his glasses glitter between his fingers. After a moment of observation his hands drop to his sides and hang limp. 

My eyes flicker away from his nervously and I lick my lips. When did my mouth become so dry? “I shouldn’t . . .”

“Shouldn’t what?” he whispers. “Treat me like a human being?” He shakes his head in frustration and releases a short bark of laughter that makes my hair stand up on end. 

I take another step back.

“Ever since . . . Ever since Sirius died . . . Everyone treats me like they think I’m going to crack or something. And I _hate_ it.”

“Harry—”

“Let me finish!” He shakes his head again and I ache to hold him. “I hate it,” he repeats in a fierce whisper. “But you . . .” the boy makes a helpless gesture, beseeching either me or some unknown god to aid him. I shiver slightly. “You’re okay sometimes. But usually you’re just such an arse!”

I can feel a scowl forming on my face and he chuckles for a moment, genuinely amused for the first time since he’s arrived.

The smile fades a bit. “I want to hate you so much, Snape. So much.” I suddenly note that his eyes are shimmering dangerously. “But I _can’t_. It would be so easy to hate you. So easy to blame you for—for everything. And yet I just can’t. And I don’t know why. I don’t know how it’s possible to despise someone so much and know that there’s something so much _more_ there at the same time. I don’t understand how you can be such an unmitigated bastard most of the time, but then be exactly what I need. I don’t . . . I don’t get it!”

Green eyes close and the boy drops his head. “I don’t get it.” He looks back up, the intensity of his gaze bordering on a physical attack. “But I think that you do. And I’m trying so _hard_ and you . . . You just—”

I cross my arms in front of my chest, recognizing the body language as defensive and not really caring. “I’m _trying_ to do the right thing, Mr. Potter.” _And run away. Far, far away._ “I’m _trying_ to protect—”

“Yourself!” 

The snarl takes me off guard and I’m acutely aware of how woefully unprepared I am for this conversation.

“You’re trying to protect yourself from _me_ and you won’t even tell me why!” The tears in his eyes shimmer but do not fall. “Everyone is always _hiding_ things from me and I won’t stand for it!” I can’t win this argument. “Not again; not anymore!” And I simply can’t answer his questions. Not if I ever want to look Albus in the eyes again. _Control, Severus._ “Not when—” Control is a choice.

So I grab him by the shoulders and press my lips against his.

_Oh . . ._

The boy freezes instantly and whatever else he was going to say gets lost somewhere. It’s a chaste kiss; there’s no heat or fire or passion there, simply an awareness of . . . . something more. His eyelids flutter closed and he makes a small noise deep in his throat. Perhaps I meant to scare him. Or perhaps I simply want him to be silent. The boy talks too much.

_“I’m sixteen, sir. The day before yesterday.”_

But instead of pulling away from me, instead of bursting into tears, or attacking me, or even simply going limp, a pair of small, delicate arms wrap around my thin waist and I can feel him rise ever so tentatively as though he were going up on his toes for leverage. I pull up and stiffen as his arms tighten around my waist.

Green eyes stare, wide and clearer than anything I’ve ever seen. His cheeks are flushed and I have an overpowering urge to throw him down and run as far from this place as I can.

I seem to run a good deal.

He blinks at me. “Oh.”

Oh indeed.

I grip him by the shoulders and attempt to push him away. He resists.

“Release me, Mr. Potter.” The sound of my voice is old and used. I’ve made a fool of myself.

The boy’s mouth firms into a hard line and he glares at me in deliberate challenge. “You started it.”

_“It would be so easy to hate you. So easy to blame you for—for everything. And yet I just can’t. And I don’t know why.”_

_Let me go, Harry Potter._ “Please let me go.” My voice cracks.

For a moment the boy stares at me, his eyes screaming confusion and incredulity. But he relents and the tight band of his arms falls away. He frowns at me from beneath his lashes, looking disturbingly childish and put upon. “Why?”

I release a shuddering breath and take a careful, deliberate step back. My grip on his shoulders tightens to what can only be a painful extent, but he stares at me steadily. Demandingly. “Why what?” The amount of potential in that question is a dangerous thing.

Potter looks at me hard, as though by staring alone he could see into my mind and expose me for the monster that I truly must be. For a moment, I’m almost afraid that he can. 

“Why don’t you want me?”

My grip tightens. “I . . .” I release a stuttered gasp, unable to breath around a non-existant obstruction in my throat, and the air seems to thin. “I . . .” He’s watching me. “There is no time!” The words tumble out of my mouth, tripping meaninglessly over one another. They make no sense and I know it, yet they’re exactly what I mean. I squeeze my eyes shut and take another step back, still holding onto his shoulders so that my body is forced to bend slightly, stretching uncomfortably across the space between us.

Harry tilts his head to the side and watches me with such sadness that I feel ill. His whisper his like cool silk against my fevered skin. “There’ll be time. There’ll be time. I promise.”

I want to weep; I choke on nothing instead and drop my head so I don’t have to look at his face anymore.

 _“I want . . . I want . . . I want_ TIME _!!!”_

For a moment we stand frozen like that, suspended in the time I claim we don’t have. But he doesn’t move or say another word, though I know I must be hurting him. 

I have to be hurting him. 

_“There’s more to me than that, and less.”_

_“Perhaps there is, Mr.—”_

_“Don’t call me that.”_

_“. . . Perhaps there is, Harry, but who will care? Your friends? The Headmaster? The lovely Miss Chang? The Dark Lord . . .?”_

_“I don’t know . . . Someone.”_

_Me. Gods curse me for it forever, but I will. I can. I do._

“Professor?”

_Shut up._

The boy shifts in my grip and his voice is gentle. “You never wished me a happy birthday, sir.”

I look up at him, stupidly stunned. “What?”

“My birthday,” he reminds me with exaggerated patience. “You never wished me a happy birthday.”

For a moment I regard him, feeling both elated and empty, and not really understanding why I should be feeling either. “Happy birthday?”

He nods as though this was the most normal thing in the world and I wonder if any of this has happened at all. This is not what I wanted. Not what I meant at all. I feel as if I’ve gone mad. 

_Control is a choice._

Finally I force myself upright, gently pulling him towards me. He watches me with birdlike curiosity and his eyes flutter shut again as I place a gentle, chaste kiss directly on his scar. He permits me the intimacy. “Happy Birthday, Mr. Potter.”

With a shiver, the child drops his head to my chest. It seems as though the weight of the world is pressed against me. “It’s Harry,” he mutters into the dark of my robes. “Just Harry.”

I press my face into his hair and sigh. I’m too old for these games. “Harry,” I mutter in defeated acknowledgement. “Happy Birthday, Harry.”

He’s still against me for an instant before he pulls away and leaves me alone without another word. I let him go. I force myself to let him go. Because I don’t know what will happen if I don’t. But I do stare after him.

What am I doing? What in the name of Merlin’s blood and ashes have I unleashed?

_“You started it.”_

If there were any mercy or truth in this world, the heavens would strike me down where I stand. 

“Oh, Severus . . .”

I turn on my heel suddenly, my head snapping away from the door through which Harry retreated to the door to the sitting room. The sitting room with the floo. Whose door is practically hidden in the shadow of the enclave into the dining area. And I find myself staring into a pair of bright blue eyes that are no longer twinkling.

“A—Albus . . .?” I swallow around a lump that’s somehow formed in my throat. “How long . . .?” 

_Too long. Too long by half._

He stares at me in silence and I want to simply curl up and die and never have to face him or Harry again. “I . . . I’m sorry . . .”

I turn away and bend over suddenly, one hand over my mouth. I don’t know if I’m trying to hide my face or about to be ill, but either reaction seems appropriate right about now. “Albus . . . I . . .”

I look up, imploringly, begging for something I can’t even identify anymore and . . .

. . . He’s not there.

And I’m not sure if he ever was.

I’m going mad.

Somewhere in the depths of the Manor, Black’s mother howls and begins to cackle over nothing. It takes several moments to realize that the voice that’s joined hers is my own.

  
**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***   


  
**“ _Yeah, take my hand and come with me  
Into this crystal village  
And see the lights so fried in brightness.  
’Cause you will never have the time;  
I would love to change your mind;  
You were there  
And it was good in the beginning._**   


  
**_Take my hand, come with me;  
I see the lights so brightly  
And we fall as if we never really mattered . . .  
’Cause you will never have the time.  
I would love to change your mind.  
It was there  
And it was good in the beginning.  
We were there.  
It was good in the beginning._”**   


  
**\- Pete Yorn  
 _Crystal Village_**   


  
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***   


  
**~ Fin**   


  
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**   



	6. Though You Cannot Fly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> **_Though You Cannot Fly_**  
>  \- Hanakai Mikakedaoshi  
> 8.20 – 28.2003  
> _______________________________________________________________  
> 
> 
> **Standard Disclaimer:** I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ was written by T.S. Elliot. I am not profiting from this.
> 
>  ** _Warnings:_** SS/HP slash implications. 
> 
> ***Continuity:** This is the sequel to _And While the King Was Looking Down_ and is Verse 6 of _J. Alfred Prufrock Arc_. 
> 
> **Notes:** The second quote has been _removed_ from the context of the song. The King refers to Dumbledore, and the Jester is Severus. The rest of the characters, I leave to you to figure out. ^_~V
> 
>  **A thousand laurels** to _ladydeathfarie_ for her incredible beta-ing. So prompt and efficient—one of the best I’ve received in ages. Thanks, hon! :-D
> 
> Sorry if this fic seems a bit . . . odd (moodwise)--but it's necessary for the next few fics. It's aaaaall about the foreshadowing . . . :-)
> 
> **Do not steal from me.**
> 
> Enjoy!

**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

**“ _Calamity has come on you, my brethren,  
and, my brethren, you deserve it._”  
\- Albert Camus  
The Plague**

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**

_A_ lbus Dumbledore leaned forward in his chair and stared fixedly at an odd, off balanced tower of colored glass that occupied the center of his desk. His blue eyes were hard and tired looking. The tower consisted of a tall, twisting stand of clear glass. Six arms extended off the stand and supported six glass boards roughly a foot long on every side. Each board was a square composed of six rows of six colored circles. On every board, multiple bits of peculiarly shaped glass and metal seemed to spin and dance, the pieces and the board’s spaces flashing different colors as they twirled. The whirling pieces were carunculous and the tower itself was called the Scaccarium. 

Currently, however, Albus was ignoring the other carunculous in favors of watching two particular pieces on the fourth level. They danced together on one space that glowed an intense bluish-green, revolving only around one another at the moment. The larger piece was tall, with a sharply tapered top and bottom and a broad disc-like middle, and seemed so precariously made that it was a wonder it didn’t fall over. It glittered darkly in the candlelight, the silver, obsidian and emerald coloring appearing to move and sway. The other, slightly smaller piece was deep blue and an odd, strained green that Albus had only seen in one other place. It was flecked with gold and silver. Unlike its top-like larger counterpart, the smaller carunculous had a base like a narrow three-sided pyramid set on its tip; the top was a rounded dome that swirled with green, looking almost as though the color would boil over at any moment and spill out onto the board.

After a moment of observing the two pieces interact with one another, Albus carefully removed the level they occupied from the Scaccarium. The other pieces on the board, seven in all, all stayed in place as the board slid out. They dropped down to the third level once their stage was gone. He set the board down on his desk and the circular spaces flashed a vibrant white before settling down again. Fawkes trilled curiously as the two pieces began to dance and spin around one another, now free of the obstructions of the other carunculous. Albus watched, his expression gradually moving from disturbed to calculating, but the slight light of displeasure in his eyes did not dim.

Fawkes trilled again from his perch, opening his wings slightly. Albus looked up and his eyes brightened slightly. “Yes, I thought so too, old friend.” He turned back to the board and sighed heavily. “Most unexpected.” The smaller carunculous flashed brightly as it came in contact with the larger one and Fawkes warbled once more.

After several more moments, the old man shook his head, his long white beard trembling slightly with the motion. “But there’s no help for it now.”

Behind him, the phoenix made a noise that sounded curiously like a snort. The Headmaster turned slightly, looking amused. Before he could respond, however, there was a soft chime. With a muttered word, the Scaccarium and carunculous vanished and Albus settled back in his chair, blue eyes fixed on the door. The chime sounded again. Albus leaned forward again and took a sherbet lemon out of the bowl on his desk and popped it in his mouth.

One of the portraits on the wall shifted as its occupant let out a sniff of displeasure. 

“Really now, Albus. You aren’t going to make the boy wait, are you?” 

Albus frowned slightly and the woman in the picture, a bitter-looking elderly woman with beetle-black eyes and streaks of black running through her frizzy platinum hair, dabbed her nose delicately with a silk handkerchief. It was obvious that she had once been breathtakingly beautiful, but time had apparently not been kind to her. 

Another sherbet lemon vanished into the Headmaster’s mouth. “He’s made his bed, Lamia. Now he’ll lie in it. Besides,” he shot her a cheeky grin that belied the expression in his eyes, “Snapes are always so much more malleable after they’ve been left to stew a bit.”

Lamia made a disgruntled noise in the back of her throat and glared at the elderly man. “I suppose that the same does not apply to Lupins or Potters,” she hissed nastily. 

The chime sounded again.

Blue eyes flickered up to the large grandfather clock stuffed in a niche between a bookcase and a wall. There were twenty-seven hands on it. He had had to remove a hand after Sirius’s death. Simply another hand from the clock and a piece from the game in the grand scheme of things, he supposed. Currently the hand that bore Severus’s symbol was pointed towards the spot designated “My Office” and scrawled up the arm were the words “Knickers in a twist.”

“My great-great-great-great-great grandson is not a pair of your socks, Albus,” Lamia squawked suddenly in dismay. “You cannot just throw him into hot water and expect him to emerge good as new!”

“Severus is quite capable of jumping into hot water himself. He needs little help from me. Now do try and behave yourself, Lamia. I don’t particularly want to send you to be cleaned again, my dear.”

Lamia Snape made another squawking noise and shifted so restlessly that her painting swung precariously to and fro. Eventually, the former Headmistress settled down, apparently content to glare at Albus beneath half-closed lids while feigning sleep.

The chime sounded a fourth time and Albus shifted a bit to get a bit more comfortable. He waved his hand and a pot of tea and a plate of raspberry scones appeared on the table by the fireplace. Personally, Albus had little affection for scones—they weren’t sweet enough to suit his tastes—but Severus had always been fond of them. Another wave and the fire leapt up from a smolder to a roaring blaze. Immediately the temperature went up three or four degrees; far too hot by the Headmaster’s standards, but Severus was anemic. Regardless of what he said about the dungeons suiting his tastes just fine, the man simply did not get nearly enough sunlight. 

Satisfied, the old man pitched his voice slightly and summoned the younger wizard: “Severus, do be so kind as to stop wearing a hole in the stones outside my door and come in, my boy.”

A moment later the door swung open to reveal the Potions Master. The Headmaster smiled faintly as the young man swept stiffly into the room. For a moment the dark-eyed wizard hesitated as though unsure whether to sit down or resume his prowling inside the office. 

Albus’s smile widened and he gestured benevolently to one of the seats by the fire. “Please have a seat.”

Black eyes flickered from the Headmaster to the proffered chair and back before Severus reluctantly moved across the room and sat. Albus stood slowly, feeling the telltale creak in his bones as he did so, and walked over to join him. The heavy leather chair gave a muffled squeak of disapproval as he sat down.

“Have some tea,” he offered, allowing his eyes to twinkle just a bit brighter to irritate his former pupil.

Grimacing slightly, the young man reached forward and took the cup, jumping slightly at the slight shock he got when his fingers brushed Albus’s. 

For an instant Albus’s hand seemed to tremble as though suddenly tired, but he immediately recovered. “Scone?” he asked before the man had a chance to dwell on the odd occurrence.

With a slight blink of confusion, Severus accepted the pastry and had it halfway to his mouth before he quite knew what he was doing. Immediately he growled, long fingers tightening around the confection and sending a shower of crumbs down onto his black robes. He glared over the semi-crushed sweet at the Headmaster who was looking at the crumbs with bemusement. 

With exaggerated care, Severus placed his damaged scone on the tea saucer in front of him and folded his hands firmly in his lap. “If you wish to talk about the additional boomslang skin and swine educe I added to this year’s inventory, I—”

“We get so few opportunities to talk these days, Severus.” The older man paused and took a long sip of tea. 

“I’m in the middle of a—”

“Nonsense,” Albus interrupted cheerily. “Surely those Healing Potions can wait a few moments while you indulge an old man, child.”

Severus took his tea with a scowl and settled back into his chair begrudgingly, looking thoroughly annoyed with himself for doing so. Albus also settled back in his own seat and took the opportunity to observe the younger man. 

Severus excelled at keeping his private thoughts and life exactly that: private. However, Albus had mastered spy games before the other man’s father had even been born. Besides, Snapes were not known for their calm, relaxed dispositions and this one was no different. The only time that Severus was calm was when he knew something that others did not or he had a distinct advantage over his opponents. And, to Severus, everyone was an opponent. He still excelled at being fairly opaque to the average person, though. Nevertheless, there were dozens of little signals to indicate his mood—a twitch here or a tic there—and Albus could read every last one.

The slight tightening about his eyes and mouth meant that he had been brooding. The subtle, nigh imperceptible swaying of his left knee meant that he was hiding something that he was extremely agitated about . . . something big. The glazed look over his normally crystal-clear gaze meant that he was tired. There was also slight a twitching in his right hand, as though he could not keep it still of his own volition—a betraying sign that he was afraid of something. 

The Headmaster took in all of this wordlessly, peering through his half-moon spectacles over the lip of his teacup while the silence stretched on uncomfortably. He resisted the urge to turn around and check the boards to see what the pieces were doing.

At last, Severus could stand no more, and he sat up a bit straighter in his chair and shifted unhappily. “I thought you wanted to talk,” he snapped peevishly after another long silence.

Albus’s bushy eyebrows rose to a surprising height on his forehead and he lowered his cup, smiling gently. “My dear boy . . . I thought that it was _you_ who wished to speak with _me_.” 

Severus’s eyes widened and his lips parted slightly. It was the closest he had ever seen the man come to gaping, even when Severus was a child. Most interesting of all, however, was the damning flush of red that rose to stain those high, aristocratic cheekbones. On a normal person, the blush would have been barely detectable. But on Severus’s pale skin, it burned like a brand.

Albus felt a slight surge of satisfaction at the sight. It was strangely gratifying to see his self-possessed former pupil so . . . expressive. Despite the sudden light of fear in his eyes. 

It would do Severus a bit of good to have something other than the inadequacies of his own action and the world in general to angst over.

The momentary lapse, however, was only an instant long before the other man came back to himself. He stared hard at Albus for a moment before he sneered unpleasantly, giving the vague impression of a snarling animal. He glared at Albus and set his tea back on the table with a defiant click. “I kissed Harry Potter.”

Albus beamed joyously. “So do I. So glad to see that you two are getting along better. The boy needs someone to be there for him now that Sirius is gone.” 

This time Severus truly _did_ gape at him, jaw slack, eyes wide, and incredulity vying with fury for dominance over his expression. 

Still beaming and apparently oblivious to the reaction his words had elicited, Albus continued while reaching for a scone. “Do you remember that time when you were twelve and—”

Severus surged to his feet. “You _what?!_ ”

“I miss the young man, too. It’s perfectly natural, Severus.” Albus took a rather large bite out of his scone. “But don’t worry—he’ll be back soon. Now as I was saying—”

“I _KISSED_ him! Not ‘I _miss_ him!’ Are you daft?”

The older man frowned sternly and his blue eyes peered over the top of his spectacles, hard and sharp. “There’s no need to be insulting, Severus. Now have a seat.”

For a moment the pallid wizard stared down at Albus as though doubting his sanity. Then, with stiff, mechanical movements, he sat down in his chair hard enough to make the seat shiver in protest. The headmaster smiled gently at man across from him and took another bite of his scone.

Black eyes watched the older wizard warily as Albus retrieved his teacup and settled back in his seat. “Do have some tea, Severus. You really should eat more, you know.”

Severus let loose a short bark of dark laughter and vigorously scrubbed his face with his hands gracelessly sprawling back in the chair. He dropped his hands to his lap and stretched his legs out in front of him, giving him a loose, gangly appearance that he hadn’t had in years. His teacup remained untouched on the table. “What is it you want of me, Albus?” The words were a weary whisper.

For a long moment Albus watched his former student with unreadable eyes before he took a slow, careful sip of tea. He stared down into the reddish brown liquid, looking uncharacteristically sober. It occurred to him absently that he was getting old. “Remember that time when you were twelve and James and Sirius locked you in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom for five hours? Professor Binns let you out sometime after 1 am, I believe. Slytherin lost . . . twenty points, was it?”

“Forty,” Severus ground out, his tone clearly telling the Headmaster to reach his point.

“Mmmmm . . .” The old man’s eyes flickered up to his companion’s suddenly, their sparkle nowhere evident. “What did you do after that?

The Potions Master looked away, his gaze fixing emptily on the fireplace. “I wrote home to Mother, but the post got intercepted.”

“Oh?”

Severus shifted moodily. “Father sent me a reply stating his disappointment at my inability to deal with a problem so minor as two Gryffindors.” His thin upper lip twitched towards a sneer at the word “Gryffindor.” The man sat up a bit taller and continued to sneer at the flames. “But he sent me a potion that he said might be of some use—” Abruptly he cut himself off and turned back to the older man in obvious agitation, dark eyes flashing. “We both know what happened after that, Albus! What is the point of this?”

“You thought you’d be clever and try to brew a particularly unpleasant, if mild, poison and in the process blew up the lab and flooded the entire lower level of the dungeons, if memory serves. Managed to break your right arm in three places, too.”

“So?” Severus spat sourly. “I was young and foolish.”

Albus smiled slightly, as though laughing at some private joke, and the twinkle retuned to his eyes. He took another measured sip of his tea. “What did you do after that?”

“I wrote another letter to Father,” the other man snapped, now looking thoroughly aggravated.

The look in Albus’s eyes seemed to dim a bit. “Indeed. You always did write home quite a bit, even for a Slytherin,” he mused, fingering the handle of his teacup delicately for a moment.

Severus watched the Headmaster’s hand for a moment before looking away with an inexplicable shudder. “Your point?”

“No need to get defensive, Severus” the old man chided mildly. “I was only pointing out that in times of distress you have a tendency to . . . _mitigate_ responsibility . . .”

Severus stood abruptly, an angry flush rising to his cheeks and his eyes cold and hooded. “I need to—”

“Sit down.”

It was not a request. For an instant the other man vacillated, but one sharp glare was all it took to cow him. Severus threw himself into his seat and slouched again, looking for all the world like one of the impudent brats he so often accused his students of being. Except perhaps that his students had never looked so hunted.

Albus regarded him through hard blue eyes for a moment as though weighing his next words. Finally, he sighed tiredly and placed his teacup on the table, all pretenses gone. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and steepled his hands just under the chin, scrutinizing the man across from him intently. Severus leaned all the way back in his chair, almost sinking into the fabric, and tried to meet Albus’s gaze, but his eyes darted away uncomfortably.

“How old are you, Severus?”

Long, delicate, stained hands seemed to flutter nervously, making as though they were going to wring themselves before aborting the attempt. Black eyes looked anywhere but directly to the front. “Thirty-seven.” He seemed to wince as he spoke, as though ashamed of the words. “Thirty-eight come November.”

Albus nodded shortly. “Yes. Thirty-seven, Severus. And all your life there has always been someone there when you got in just a bit too deep. First your parents, then Voldemort,” here Severus flinched again and his hands repeated their odd pattern of half-wringing, “then myself . . . You have always had someone to go to when things became . . . thorny.” 

He stopped as though waiting for Severus to interject. For his part, the younger man had given up on his stunted hand movements, choosing instead to tuck his right hand beneath his chin and catch a few strands of his long hair between his fingers. Periodically he would tug lightly at the hair, a gesture of agitation that Albus had thought he’d long ago broken. Severus did not appear to be aware of him anymore, his eyes dark and depthless as he stared blankly at the far wall.

After a long silence, Albus folded his hands and pursed his lips unhappily. “I am old, Severus.” 

The man jumped as though startled and his gaze latched onto his former teacher. “Alb—”

The Headmaster waved away the words. “I am _old_ ,” he repeated a bit more gently. “And I am beginning to feel it, my friend.” Severus made a small noise as though about to protest, his eyes a bit wild. Albus smiled sympathetically at the younger man’s misery, but continued: “I love you as though you were my own son, child. But I will not— _cannot_ —always be there to help you. Or to save you. Or those you . . . _care_ for.”

For a moment Severus merely stared at him with empty eyes; then he closed his eyes and tilted his head back as though he could find what he was seeking somewhere above him. The fire crackled loudly as a log split. “ . . . I don’t know what to do.”

The admission sounded painful, as though it had been physically drawn out against his will.

Albus leaned back and watched the man’s pale throat work soundlessly for a minute. Blue eyes dimmed with an unidentifiable emotion and the fire popped loudly once more. “I cannot help you.” He regarded the normally controlled man silently, watching as Severus’s shields slowly unraveled, layer by layer. The process had to be painful.

At last he stood slowly, ignoring the protests of his body. “You are a good man, Severus,” he ignored the bitter snort the comment earned him, “and I trust that you will utilize your best judgment . . . in all things.”

Severus rose tiredly, his slow motions and tense expression making him look far older than he actually was. Albus’s sharp ears picked up a distinct mutter of “Your confidence warms my heart,” but didn’t respond. Severus stared blankly at the table for a moment, his expression gradually relaxing into the familiarly cruel mask he usually wore as he gathered himself to go. 

The Headmaster sat down in the chair behind his desk and began humming an anonymous tune under his breath. Fawkes preened shamelessly. 

“The boomslang skin—” Severus started abruptly, still gazing at the table.

Albus beamed for no particular reason. “Is on order. It will be in just in time for the seventh year’s classes. The students _do_ come back in just weeks.” His eyes seemed to sparkle brightly as he spoke.

Severus grunted noncommittally and turned sharply on his heel, heavy robes belling out around him dramatically as he moved towards the door.

“About our dear Mister Potter, Severus . . .” 

The man froze.

Albus continued, seemingly oblivious as he shuffled through some papers, “Ever since the sad events at the Ministry and a rather . . . unfortunate incident with the Dursley family this summer, he will need someone there for a him—a constant, if you will.”

Severus did not turn around, but his voice was that of a man on his very last reserves. “I am sure that Minerva—”

“He respects you and you—”

Abruptly, Severus spun around roughly, his hair flying into his eyes. “There is no time!” The words were harsh and strained and as soon as they left his lips, Severus snapped his mouth shut, almost biting his own tongue in the process. A flash of panic appeared in his eyes, as though he had just said something unforgivable. Then he swayed slightly on his feet, his eyes narrowed, as he frowned darkly at Albus for a moment before something like horror crossed his face. 

He took a step back and clenched his hands into fists. “What have you done to me, Albus? What did you—”

The words died as Albus looked up slowly, his gaze suddenly painfully penetrating. Silence descended between them, heavy and uncomfortable, for just an instant before Albus lifted a single eyebrow. “Perhaps Mister Potter had missed you as well, Severus.” He smiled rather whimsically and looked back down at his papers once more.

The dismissal was clear. For an instant Severus was frozen with impotent rage, then he whirled around violently and stormed out of the room, slamming the door loudly behind him. 

Albus looked up from his paperwork at the door with a soft sigh. Fawkes cooed and he shook his head, a look of vague frustration marring his aged features. “No help for it,” the Headmaster muttered once more under his breath. 

Lamia stirred in her frame.

The former Snape matriarch sniffed at her handkerchief once more and shot a half-hearted glare at her successor’s back. “Give him two months and I daresay he’ll have that boy’s heart in the palm of his hand. Or vice versa.” She sounded immensely pleased with the situation.

Albus frowned at her irritably before waving his wand once in the air in the shape of a triangle. The section of board that he had made removed reappeared on his desk. The smaller piece spun busily around the larger’s slower rotation. Albus watched them critically for a moment before turning back to the portrait. “Then let us hope that neither of them makes a fist.”

Lamia frowned slightly and the fire popped loudly once again, reminding Albus of its presence. It suddenly seemed unbearably hot. When he raised his wand to lower the flame, though, his attention was suddenly—insignificantly—arrested by something on the table.

Albus sighed and lowered the flame. His bones creaked as he sat down again and his eyes flickered over to his clock before returning to the table. Only twenty-seven hands. The old man closed his eyes wearily. When he opened them they fixed once more on the tea table.

Only twenty-seven hands.

And Severus hadn’t even touched his tea.

**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

**“ _When the Jester sang for the King and Queen  
In a coat he borrowed from James Dean   
And a voice that came from you and me . . .  
Oh, and while the King was looking down,  
The Jester stole his thorny crown.  
The courtroom was adjourned—  
No verdict was returned._”  
\- Don McLean  
 _American Pie_**

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

**~ _Fin_**

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**


	7. Listen to the Mustn'ts, Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Listen to the Mustn’ts, Child_**  
>  \- Hanakai Mikakedaoshi  
> 8.7-9.2003  
> _______________________________________________________________  
> 
> 
> **Standard Disclaimer:** I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ was written by T.S. Elliot. I am not profiting from this.
> 
>  ** _Warnings:_** SS/HP slash. 
> 
> ***Continuity:** This is the sequel to _Though You Cannot Fly_ and is Verse 7 of _J. Alfred Prufrock Arc_. 
> 
> **Notes:** Both quotes are Harry’s. ^^
> 
>  **Shout Outs** go to my indispensable beta LadyDeathFarie for her ever-marvellous work! 
> 
> **Do not steal from me.**
> 
> Enjoy!

**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

**“ _Listen to the MUSTN’TS, child,  
Listen to the DON’TS  
Listen to the SHOULDN’TS  
The IMPOSSIBLES, the WON’TS  
Listen to the NEVER HAVES  
Then listen close to me—  
Anything can happen, child,  
ANYTHING can be._”**

**\- Shel Silverstien  
 _Listen to the Mustn’ts_  
Where the Sidewalk Ends**

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**

_H_ arry—because no one ever called him Harold—James Potter was sixteen years old. He had green eyes and black hair that never stayed still. He had a quirky little mouth that was never set in one particular expression for very long and small, nervous hands that he had taken to wringing over the past few months. Like his father—the late, Great James Potter—he wore wide, thick, round glasses that made him look far younger than he actually was and had a propensity for biting his lower lip whenever he encountered a particularly frustrating problem. 

Not that he was frustrated. No. Not by any means. He was merely . . . Tired. 

Those small hands curled around the edges of the Divinations text that he was supposed to be studying.

He wasn’t worried either. It was the Occlumency lessons. And the lack of sleep. It most certainly _wasn’t_ Snape. Or that . . . thing . . . that had happened.

He was just fine, though. He had his own room—a _real_ room now that was just his. He could study whenever he wanted, ate three meals a day and had snacks as he pleased. And best of all, there were no Dursleys to worry about. He was fine.

The Divination text went flying across the room, sailing right into the dresser mirror and bouncing harmlessly off the glass. For a moment Harry stared at it blankly, breathing just a bit too fast and more than a little disappointed that the glass hadn’t shattered.

_Breathe._

He was fine. Just fine.

“Harry?”

Green eyes flashed behind coke-bottle lenses as the door to his room swung open with an overly cautious creak. Everyone was overly cautious around him now. 

But he was _fine_.

“Harry?” Remus’s head peered in around the heavy mahogany door. “I was walking past and a I heard a noise.” The rest of his body appeared. “Are you alright?”

For a moment the boy’s lips twisted towards what may have been a smile, but he turned away too fast for Remus to see. “’M fine,” he mumbled, turning back to the desk.

He stared blankly down at his scroll for a moment, absently running his fingers over his quill. Remus’s honey brown eyes flicked to the boy, then to the Divinations book on the floor, and then back to his young charge. He eased into the room slowly, his hypersensitive nose twitching at the heavy scent of anger and fear intermingled with a strange throbbing undertone of _want_ that lingered in the air. The werewolf closed the door behind him and sat down on the edge of the large bed uninvited.

“You want to talk about it?”

There was no mention of the “it,” although they both knew that he could have meant anything. Harry frowned moodily at his blank paper and nibbled on his lower lip. It was slightly swollen from the attention.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he said after a moment.

Remus watched him with unblinking eyes, and the boy shifted unhappily. 

“I’m—”

“Fine,” the older man finished for him. Harry looked over at him with a dark scowl. 

Remus smiled gently and ran a hand back through his prematurely platinum hair. After Sirius’s death, the werewolf’s hair had seemed to gray almost literally overnight. The years seemed to press down on him even harder, making him thinner, more tired, and just a bit less in control of the wolf. It hadn’t been like that a year ago. It hadn’t even been like that six months ago. 

The boy watched the gesture and felt a painful, tearing surge of guilt and looked back down at his desk. Remus had aged far, far before his time—and he had not done so gracefully. Sometimes, as he crept down to the dining room at night to sit, he heard muffled, wrenching sobs coming from the room that Remus had claimed. Sirius’s room. Harry never mentioned those awful, comfortless tears, and Remus never spoke of his insomnia. They were both just fine.

A short bark of laughter left Harry’s lips, but it sounded alarmingly like a sob. He picked up the quill and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes tiredly. “I miss him.” There was a terribly grating feeling of self-loathing and guilt as he spoke, unsure of exactly who he missed.

_Sirius, of course. I miss Sirius._

But the image of dark velvet eyes and the scent of tea and roses was seared into his mind and those had never belonged to Sirius.

Remus continued to watch him with frank, sympathetic eyes as though he could see the boy’s struggle written plainly on his face. Harry looked down at his lap, praying that he could not.

“I know how you feel. Wanting to see someone and not being able to. Wanting to talk to them, touch them, just look them in the eyes once more to assure yourself that they are real and none of it was a dream or some awful, twisted nightmare.”

Harry’s glasses slid forward on his nose slightly and all he could think of was the desperate chastity of soft dry lips pressed against his scar. He shifted in his seat as though trying to escape the memory and the sensation it conjured, trying instead to picture Sirius in his mind. He bit his lower lip, unable to come up with more than a faded image of a small, fierce man—angry, afraid, and hunted. He didn’t want to remember Sirius like that.

For a moment Remus shifted forward as though about to touch the boy, but then he pulled back. Harry turned slightly, his face still lowered, to look at the last remaining Marauder. Guilt swam in his jade eyes, knowing that his black thoughts had to be stamped all over his face. 

“Dumbledore told me that you shouldn’t dwell on dreams so much that you forget to live.” He flinched as he spoke, and his soft voice cracked uncertainly on the word “live.”

Remus’s eyes glittered an unnatural burnished gold color and his lips drew back in a smile so dark it was almost a snarl. “The Headmaster is a far wiser man than I.”

Harry dropped his eyes quickly, suddenly overwhelmed by an urge to simply crawl under his bed and never emerge ever again. He was simply so _tired_ now . . . It was no longer an adventure. It was no longer fun. It was no longer something to be taken in stride. It was a War—a War. And people would fight, and people would die, and it was going to be terrible. Harry did not want that. It had to end before that happened. Before there were more Siriuses and Cedrics; he knew what he had to do. 

But he was only sixteen.

_“Just a child.”_

And—Gryffindor or no—he was afraid.

_”What have you done to me, boy?”_

His head snapped up suddenly, green eyes flashing. He bit his lip hard to keep from snapping at Remus. Dumbledore wasn’t wiser than he was. Dumbledore made mistakes. Dumbledore let people down. Dumbledore failed. Dumbledore—

—was only human.

Harry stood unhappily and started to pace the room. The primary guestroom, it was fairly large and held traces of pureblood opulence everywhere, from the carvings on the mahogany walls, to the large king sized bed, right down to the thick red carpeting. Sirius had cleaned it out and decorated it just for Harry while he’d been confined to Headquarters. It was the last thing he’d finished before . . . everything.

“Harry?”

The boy pivoted sharply and spun around, growing increasingly agitated. He missed Sirius.

_I want to see him again._

He was mourning _Sirius_.

_Why do I have to see him?_

Sirius.

_I miss him._

“Tell me what happened at the Dursleys, Harry.”

The young man froze in mid-stride, his wide green eyes suddenly locking onto a pair of golden ones. Remus frowned at the shadows he saw there. No sixteen-year-old should have eyes like that. Sirius had had eyes like that.

Remus looked away, choosing to pluck at the bed’s blue comforter and study the blank floor instead of those eyes. “Tell me what happened at the Dursleys,” he murmured to the thick red carpet. His eyes flickered back to the boy’s. “Please?”

Harry met his gaze levelly without flinching. “I lost my temper.”

For a long moment they stared at one another. Harry did not elaborate and Remus did not ask that he do so. Dumbledore knew; that was enough. Remus dropped his eyes first.

That would have to be enough.

Remus stood, feeling suddenly, helplessly uncomfortable. He opened his mouth to say something—he didn’t know what—but Harry spoke first.

His voice sounded thin and desperate in the void between them. “I didn’t mean to.”

Golden eyes closed. “I know.”

He could feel his ward’s eyes on him, begging for a forgiveness he wasn’t sure he could offer. “I’m okay,” he said after another long moment. “Really.”

“I know,” Remus repeated. 

They both heard the lie. They both ignored it.

_“I miss him.”_

He turned slightly to look up at the child who was the last remnant of his dead friends. It saddened him suddenly to see so little of James in the boy now. Faces were not people, and, however he may look, Harry acted more like Lily than James. He had her passion, her tenacity, and her endless depth of feeling. Everything touched him to the core, from seeing his parents in the Mirror of Erised to Dumbledore’s lies by omission. And now it looked as though he were bent double beneath the weight of those feelings. He was old before his time. 

“Will you be down for dinner?” He was surprised to find himself addressing the floor once again.

It was still too soon for both of them—the pain was too near.

Harry watched him in silence for a moment before turning. He retrieved the fallen Divinations book and placed it on the dresser with exaggerated care. “I’m not hungry.”

Remus turned away and bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying anything more. As he walked to the door he could hear a soft whispering sound as the boy dry-washed his hands absently. Suddenly he was not hungry, either.

The door closed behind him with a soft click and Harry remained at the dresser, staring aimlessly out the window. He could see muggles walking to and fro on the street three stories below, completely unaware of the mansion that towered above them or the anxious boy who watched them in silence. Light from the afternoon sun poured into the room, throwing odd shadows around. In the distance, he imagined he could see Hedwig returning from her delivery at the Burrow. Eventually he left the window, disgusted with himself.

Harry walked across the room, threw himself down on his bed and squeezed his eyes shut. He curled into a fetal ball, arms wrapped tight around his waist. _“I miss him.”_ He could almost remember how it felt when he kissed him. _“I miss him.”_ The painful grip he’d had on his arms. _“I miss him.”_ The tingles that had erupted throughout his entire body as he’d leaned up into that kiss. _“I miss him.”_ Rose and tea. Damp stones and cold earth. Sweet and sour. And so intimately _him._

“I miss him.”

He didn’t know what to do.

_“I miss him.”_

His whole body ached with the need of it, and he hated himself. He should be missing Sirius. He should be wanting Sirius. He should _not_ be laying here thinking of how _he_ tasted like chamomile and smelled like blood and peach tea. He should be mourning Sirius. Sad that Sirius was not here. Sad that it was his own fault that Sirius was not here.

So why, then, was it that he could only think of that painful psuedo embrace and the very soft _“Oh.”_ Snape had made when he pressed their lips together?

He didn’t know, but it hurt. The absence of _him_ —this man who should have been nothing but an afterthought—hurt like Crucius. It tore at him.

“Leave me alone, Severus Snape.” But even as he said the words, he knew he didn’t mean them. And that perhaps, hurt more than anything else.

He fell asleep sometime after that, he didn’t know when. Hedwig arrived a little before sunset and tapped her beak repeatedly on the window in irritation at finding herself locked out. With a reluctant groan, Harry arose and stumbled out of bed toward the window.

The snow owl tapped again a bit harder to motivate her boy.

He shot her a half-hearted glare as he slid the window open so she could slip in. The owl darted past him towards her water bowl in a blur of feathers. He shoved the Divination book in the gap between the ledge and the window, propping it open.

“You could have stayed the night, Hed. Pig’s really not all that bad.” 

Hedwig gave her master a look that could only be called skeptical, hooted and left her perch to settle on his shoulder. He winced as she nipped his ear a bit too hard in reproach.

“Sorry, girl.” Long fingers ran through her feathers soothingly as Harry returned to his desk. He slumped down in his chair, and Hedwig hopped off his shoulder and onto the desk. Her sharp talons dug into his skin as she pushed off.

She cocked her head to the side oddly and looked at him in expectation. Harry smiled sadly and gently brushed the feathers on her neck, smoothing them down. “I’ve not really been myself of late, have I, Hed?”

The creature hooted in sympathy. She bobbed down, tapping the scroll on the desk with her bill, and then hooted again.

Harry pushed the scroll away from him in irritation. Hedwig pushed it back. 

“C’mon, girl.” He shoved the scroll away. “I’m not in the mood to do homework. Besides, school doesn’t start for another week and a half. I have time.”

The owl clicked her beak and pushed the scroll back, obviously waiting for something.

Harry glared at her in frustration. “I don’t _have_ anymore post today and there are treats near your perch.”

Hedwig clicked her beak again and scratched at the desk with her claws, leaving light furrows in the hard wooden surface.

Annoyed, Harry picked up the quill on the desk, jammed it in the inkwell, and used his free hand to snap open the scroll. The thick parchment was three feet long, the required length for his essay on why one did not need the Eye to study Tarot (though it helped), and was still blank. He stared at it for a moment, sliding his fingers up and down on the quill’s shaft as he thought. Hedwig scratched at the desk again and hooted.

_Dear,_

Harry immediately scratched out the word with a growl. “No, no, no . . .”

The quill hovered indecisively over the page for a moment and a large drop of ink fell, staining the paper and seeping through to darken the wood below. After another moment of hesitation, Harry rested the quill against the scroll and wrote out three lines in his very best handwriting. He stared at it for a moment before letting out a bark of self-deprecating laughter.

_Dear Professor Snape,  
I miss you.  
H.P._

Snape would probably send him a Howler in reply. It would, no doubt, have perfect grammar and syntax. He could just hear it now: **_‘MISTER POTTER, KINDLY REFRAIN FROM WASTING MY TIME WITH YOUR CHILDISH NOTIONS OF ROMANCE. I DO NOT NOW NOR WILL I EVER CARE IF YOU “MISS” ME, AS YOU OH SO TRITELY PUT IT AND SHOULD YOU CONTINUE TO HARASS ME, I WILL BE FORCED TO PRESS CHARGES.’_** Then it would explode in some magical and theatrical way—a lot like Snape himself—and leave him with a hole in his chest and a pile of ash.

“Dear Professor Snape . . .”

Harry laughed once more and allowed the scroll to snap closed. It was ruined now; he’d have to get a whole new piece of parchment for his essay. He grabbed the scroll, prepared to throw it away, only to have Hedwig alight from the desk and snatch the scroll out of his grasp.

“Hey!!” He leapt up in the air in a futile attempt to retrieve the scroll. “Give that back! That’s _not_ post!” 

Hedwig flew around the room, the letter clutched tightly in her talons, and hooted triumphantly. Green eyes flickered towards the window and Harry immediately clambered over the bed to close it. The owl hooted again, sounding ridiculously pleased with herself, and darted towards the window, escaping just before Harry managed to yank the book out.

“Damnit, no!”

The dark-haired boy stood by the window and watched until Hedwig was little more than a smear against the sky. He jerked the book out of the window out of sheer spite and felt a pang of satisfaction at the loud slam the glass made as it hit the ledge. 

He groaned and pressed his forehead against the cool glass. What had he just done? Snape was going to . . .

He shuddered and cut that thought off. Snape was going to make his life hell. Though Harry suddenly doubted that he’d know the difference. There was nothing he could do now, though; Hedwig was long gone and—even if he could go get her—he was forbidden from leaving the Manor. Voldemort had become bolder since his return had been made public. There was just no help for it.

Hogwarts was at least four and a half hours away if she flew her fastest. Harry returned to his desk chair and waited, choosing to seethe in silence instead of sit through a silent dinner or face Remus’s omniscient gaze. Surprisingly, he actually managed to finish his essay on Tarot and edit his Transfiguration project a third time. Sometime around eleven o’clock, Remus hovered anxiously out side of his door for a few minutes. He did not come in and it never occurred to Harry to call out to him.

Midnight found Harry slumped across his desk, ink staining his left cheek and parchment sticking to his face when he heard the tapping on the glass. Hedwig was back.

“You are in _so_ much trouble,” the boy snapped as he jerked the window open again with unnecessary violence. 

Hedwig hopped in, flew over to her perch, and promptly began to preen, completely oblivious to his displeasure. She looked immensely proud of herself.

Harry stared at her a moment, one foot tapping on the floor impatiently. The owl ignored him, happily slurping up her water unnecessarily loudly. 

It was obvious that she was ignoring him. “Well?” 

It suddenly occurred to him that he was half expecting the owl to reply and, disgusted with himself, Harry marched across the room to her perch. She hooted in greeting and stuck out her right leg. Attached to the side with a small bit of twine was a small square of haphazardly folded white paper. It felt thick and expensive.

Suddenly clumsy fingers undid the twine with a light tug and the paper fell into his palm. 

It wasn’t a Howler.

Hedwig looked positively smug.

But it wasn’t a Howler! 

Suddenly Harry was grinning like a loon. 

He hurried back over to the window and sat down on the ledge. The paper crinkled and his hands trembled slightly as he opened the note. There was no greeting. It was simply one sentence, scrawled out hastily as though the writer had been busy, or agitated:

_Call me Severus._

And, for no particular reason, Harry James Potter (because no one called him Harold) crumpled the note in his fist and smiled at the new moon.

**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

**“ _It's an itch we know we are gonna scratch;  
Gonna take a while for this egg to hatch,  
But wouldn't it be beautiful . . .?  
. . .  
Why can't I breathe whenever I think about you?  
Why can't I speak whenever I talk about you?  
It's inevitable, it's a fact that we're gonna get down to it,  
So tell me:  
Why can't I breathe whenever I think about you?_”**

**\- Liz Phair  
 _Why Can’t I Breathe?_**

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

**~ Fin**

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**


	8. Two Foot Palace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_  
> Two Foot Palace  
>  ~ Verse Eight ~_**  
> \- Hanakai Mikakedaoshi  
> 9.16-10.3.2003  
>  ***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***
> 
> **Standard Disclaimer:** I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ was written by T.S. Elliot. I am not profiting from this.
> 
>  **A thousand laurels** to _ladydeathfarie_ for her incredible beta-ing. This woman makes me lucid, people. Thanks, hon! =3
> 
>  _ **Warnings:**_ SS/HP **slash** and CONTAINS S.P.O.I.L.E.R.S. for Book 5. 
> 
> **Do not steal from me.**
> 
> **Please Review.**

**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

**“ _I’m taking a ride off to one side; It is a personal thing.  
Where?  
When I can’t stand Up in this cage . . . I’m not regretting.  
I don’t need a better thing—I’d settle for less.  
It’s another thing for me:  
I just have to wander through this world  
Alone.  
Stop before you fall Into the hole that I have dug here;  
Rest even as you Are starting to feel the way I used to.  
I don’t need a better thing (Just to sound confused).  
Don’t talk about everyone . . .  
I am not amused by you.  
Cause I’m gonna lose you. Yes, I’m gonna lose you.  
If I’m gonna lose you, I’ll lose you now for good._”**

**\- Pete Yorn  
 _Lose You_**

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**

I _t starts._

Harry shifted uncomfortably on the bench as the new First Years were being Sorted and tried to pretend he didn’t feel Snape’s eyes burning a hole through his back. Ron bounced up and down in expectation for the Feast, oblivious to their Potions Master’s scrutiny. Hermione, her head buried in a book that seemed almost as large as she was, peered over the leather bound monstrosity and frowned at the preoccupied look on her friend’s face. How she had managed to smuggle that book in was anybody’s guess. Green eyes locked with Hermione’s hazel ones until the girl flushed and returned to her reading. Further up the bench, Collin Creevey suddenly leaned over the table and started pointing frantically at a small girl with long, unremarkable black hair who was shuffling forward in the line of First Years.

McGonnegall’s small reading glasses flashed as she looked at the scroll, Sorting Hat held almost carelessly in her free hand. “Creevey, Mary!”

The little girl shuffled forward, looking terribly awkward, and Collin beamed at Harry. “That’s our little sister!”

Harry smiled weakly, attempting to look happy, but only coming off as slightly nauseous and Seamus snickered behind his hand. Ron, who had somehow managed to miss the entire exchange, looked over the Irish boy curiously.

Seamus’s blue eyes flashed mischievously. “Looks like our boy Harry may be acquirin’ a new admirer.” He winked at Ron, managing through his own unique talent to make it look obscene. “If you know what I mean.”

The redhead twisted in his seat just in time to hear the Hat yell out “GRYFFINDOR!!” in its overly exuberant voice. The table erupted in applause, conveniently drowning out Harry’s groan as the newest Creevey bounced over to the table to plop down next to her brothers. 

Hermione looked up again and pursed her lips unhappily. “You’re quite _sure_ you’re alright?”

Harry smiled, a pained expression. “Fine.” The bushy-haired girl scowled sternly and Harry shifted uncomfortably, torn between desperately wishing that Snape would look away and desperately hoping that Snape wouldn’t. “Really. I’m alright.”

Ron’s face suddenly appeared in Harry’s line of vision, forcing the smaller teen to lean back with a surprised grimace. “You look like shite, mate.”

“Thanks so much,” the black-haired boy snapped before he could restrain himself. 

Ron blinked owlishly and then flushed, turning even redder than normal. He sat back with a hastily mutter “M’sorry,” and turned his attention back to the Sorting, severely cowed. Hermione’s frown deepened and Harry almost held his breath in expectation of those five fateful words, _What happened at the Durselys’?_ ; but a sudden bell-like noise interrupted them as Dumbledore rose, still tapping his fork against the lip of his glass.

Harry slouched in his seat, grateful for the distraction. The Headmaster beamed at the student body and began his speech, but even the usual warnings about shifting stairs, throwing curses in the halls, and why the Forbidden Forest is the Forbidden Forest could not distract the young man from the scalding sensation of the First Years’ eyes seeking him out and stripping him of the comfortable anonymity of the Gryffindor. He heard whispers, both real and imagined, as he was pointed out, gawked at, and held up for an inspection that he didn’t think he could pass. 

His mind suddenly flashed to the boa constrictor he’d released from that Muggle zoo First Year: _Bred in captivity._ Harry shifted once more as Mary Creevey literally squealed in delight and _pointed_ at him. He’d done a good thing, releasing that snake. The realization was sudden and made him feel lightheaded. It was probably the best thing he’d ever done. 

He turned suddenly and his eyes locked with an obsidian gaze—the only gaze he would acknowledge was on him. The only gaze he _wanted_ on him. For an instant he and Snape stared at one another from across the massive Hall, only vaguely aware that Filch had added 120 new items to the list of contraband and that Mary was desperately trying to get her brothers’ idol to look at her.

Harry looked away first, feeling oddly exposed and very, very warm all over. He didn’t look back for the rest of the Feast.

****

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


Light footsteps sounded against the cool stones of the dungeon outside the door, source-less sounds without a meaningful context. For a moment they hesitated, and then they retreated once more. Hidden beneath his father’s invisibility cloak, Harry chewed anxiously on his lower as he watched a shadow pass back on forth on the other side of the door. Remus had given Harry the Marauder’s Map right before he left Headquarters, though how the werewolf had obtained it was a mystery. With the map’s help, navigating the labyrinth-like dungeons was a good deal easier, especially since he was only down there for one reason. 

It was 12:39. And Snape was on the other side of that door.

There had been no communication between the two of them since Harry’s unintentional letter and Snape’s hurried reply. Harry found that he was at a total loss of things to say and Snape . . . was Snape. The man had fewer kind bones in his body than a Cornish Pixie had ounces of common sense. It also didn’t help that Remus had asked Harry why he’d owled Hogwarts the very next morning. Harry wasn’t sure what Remus would do if he suspected that . . . something . . . had happen between his de facto godson and “Snivellus,” but he wasn’t eager to find out either.

Yet Harry had wanted to see Snape. Severus. He wanted to see Severus. He wanted to see that interesting, depthless man who draped his cloak over his shoulders by the lake, and held him when he broke down, and made him tea, and wished him a happy birthday, and kissed him so _perfectly_ . . . Even though it was the same man who mocked, belittled, and humiliated him at every turn. The same man who almost physically threw him out of his office the previous year. The same man who was supposed to loathe him more than even Voldemort. 

Because . . . Well, just _because_. Because there was the potential for something more there. Something that made Harry feel more than weak in the knees, more than love, hate, or lust—more than anything else. Something that made Harry feel good at a time when nothing made Harry feel good. He wanted to throw himself into the Potions Master’s arms and simply _be_ , without any prerequisites, requirements, or expectations. And he knew somehow that that was alright with Snape. With Severus.

No justifications, explanations, or needs for absolution. Simply them.

Harry tugged back the hood of his cloak, ready to drop it in a moment’s notice. He approached the door and hesitated, his right hand raised in preparation to knock. 

“ _Merlin’s blood! Whoever is nancing about out there, either come in or leave! I am busy!_ ”

The young man jumped, startled, and then pushed the door open carefully, just enough to slip in. It closed behind him with a menacing thump. 

The room was surprisingly large. It may have once been a classroom, but someone had long ago converted it into a private lab. A brilliant fire crackled merrily in the oven-sized hearth to the teen’s right and directly in front of him shelves rose to the ceiling, crammed to bursting with books and some rather shady-looking jars. The mantle above the fireplace was lined with scrolls, old photographs, and various odds and ends that seemed to have no other purposed beyond looking shiny and functionless. Snape was to his left, hidden behind a long, heavy table that took up nearly half the room leaving only a foot or so of space on either end, and hunched over an enormous black cauldron, looking so closely at the bottom that he was actually leaning into the cauldron. Various ingredients of questionable origin littered the table and three large books were lying open to the man’s right. A thick curtain of inky black hair fell over Snape’s face, hiding it from view as those long, skilled fingers pressed in on the cauldron’s sides as though trying to push them inward. 

Snape did not look up. “What do you want?”

For a moment, Harry stood, strangely stunned by his sudden proximity to the man who had haunted him, for better or worse, since his very first day at Hogwarts. There was a sudden, inexplicable intimacy to being alone with Snape—Severus—now that hadn’t existed before.

His musings were cut short, as Snape suddenly stood upright so abruptly that he was amazed that the man’s spine hadn’t snapped like a rubber band. Pure black eyes speared Harry and his breath caught somewhere just below his breastbone. He was both terrified and exhilarated. A log cracked in the fire and he jumped, the hood of his invisibility cloak finally slipping off to reveal his disembodied head.

Snape stared, looking oddly consternated for a moment before he seemed to come to himself. “Take that damn thing off,” he hissed, his eyes darting to closed door.

Harry flushed in shame and undid the throat clasp, allowing the delicate fabric to pool at his ankles. He stepped out of it, suddenly grateful that he’d never changed out of his robes after dinner, despite the odd looks Ron had given him when he’d crawled into bed fully clothed. Snape wasn’t simply watching him, he was devouring him with his eyes. Harry met that hungry gaze with unabashed curiosity and the other man looked away, hunching over his cauldron once more. 

“Is there something you need, Mr. Potter?” His voice echoed oddly in the cauldron, muffled by the thick iron.

Harry frowned; this wasn’t how he’d pictured this meeting going. “I . . .”

“Get on with it or get out, Potter. I have more important things to attend to.”

The younger man bristled, suddenly angry and feeling more than just a bit dejected. He glared at the cauldron, green eyes attempting bore through the metal and shame the hidden man into facing him. Snape ignored him, choosing instead to tilt the cauldron back a bit so that only two legs were resting on the table and his head was literally inside the thing.

A long silence passed between the two, an almost ridiculous amount of time, as Snape continued his unnecessarily thorough inspection of the apparently satisfactory bottom and Harry frown at his teacher, unable to puzzle out his behavior. He hadn’t been expecting Snape to throw him up against a wall and . . . No. He hadn’t been expecting anything like that. But he had expected to be received a bit more . . . kindly? No. Snape would probably curl up and die before he did kindly. Humanely? He wasn’t sure. But _something_ had happened this summer and he deserved a bit more than ‘ _quit nancing about the hallway_ ,’ or ‘ _I have more important things to do_.’

Unconsciously, the teen’s hand brushed against his pocket, pressing the small reassuring lump of paper as it passed. _Call me Severus._

Harry scowled and marched forward. A small, surprisingly strong hand grabbed one of the legs of the cauldron and yanked it down, forcing Snape to either retract his head or risk having his neck broken. ‘ _I have more important things to do_ ’ wasn’t going to cut it tonight. Not after he’d spent all summer agonizing over this . . . this . . . utter _bastard_ of a man.

Snape jerked out of the cauldron just in time to avoid having his jaw broken. The man glared and pulled himself upright to tower over the boy. 

Harry glared back and let the cauldron drop to the table with a resounding boom. “I’m not going to go away just because you ignore me.”

If possible, Snape seemed to make himself even taller in response, looming over the 5’7” Potter heir. “Of course not.” The man’s sneer burned like acid. “Never could bring yourself to do something so convenient, could you, _boy_?”

Harry flinched despite himself. “Well, I’d hate to prove you right, _Professor_.”

This time, Snape flinched. Harry couldn’t help the smirk that quirked at the edges of his mouth, even as his mind was shrieking at him to stop. This wasn’t what he’d come here for. Hard green eyes softened suddenly, something like guilt washing away whatever triumph he may have felt. He turned away and crossed his arms tightly over his chest, staring at the fire. Watching Snape would only make him say something stupid again.

He could hear Snape taking a deep breath, no doubt ready to tear him down from the Potter Pedestal again. Harry spoke before he could get the words out. 

“I missed you.”

There. 

He’d said it. 

A choked noise, like a barely suppressed gasp left the man behind him and the fire popped loudly. For an instant nothing seemed to move but the dancing flames reflecting off Harry’s glasses, then there was an odd scuffling noise that made the boy’s hair stand on end. He turned, dropping his arms in preparation for whatever Snape was going to do to him. 

Only . . .

Snape was now standing with his back to him, facing the wall. His fists were pressed against the cool stones and his head was lowered. The teen stepped forward in alarm. “S—”

“Get out, Potter.” The man’s voice sounded raspy.

He hesitated for an instant, suddenly wanting more than anything to obey that order, that unequivocal command . . . But there was something else too: something . . . that part of him, that core of reason and control that resisted Imperius and got him out of the trouble his impulsiveness got him into, forced him to stay rooted to the spot.

“I told you to leave!”

 _No._ “No.”

And then he felt it: a soft pressure against his mind, not truly intrusive, but foreign all the same. _Legilimens,_ he realized. _He’s trying to manipulate me._

Harry braced his feet on the floor, shoulder width apart. _Focus, now . . ._ He could feel the intrusion, something warm, dark, and though not quite malevolent, not at all what he wanted to do. _Let go of all emotion._ He touched the intrusion, ( _Focus, now . . ._ ) grabbed it, ( _Let go of all emotion._ ), and _pushed_. 

_You let me get in too far._

Snape made no sound, but the intrusion seemed to shudder, then resist, and then at last vanish. Harry released a sigh before he could contain himself. He watched Snape shake his head and scowled at the older man once more. “How often do you do that to your students? _Sir?_ ”

“As often as need be.” But there was no bite to the words. He merely sounded . . . defeated. “Leave, Mr. Potter.”

_You lost control._

“Why?” Harry moved towards the man again, careful not to let his hip bump the table as he walked around it, lest something should fall. “Turn around and look at me.”

“Because you should not _be_ here.” No. Not defeated. Desperate. Scared. Angry.

_Severus._

Harry narrowed his eyes and stopped a foot or so from his goal. “Well, I think I should. I want to be here. And don’t call me Potter.” He tried, unsuccessfully, to peer through Snape’s hair and get a look at the man’s face to see what he was thinking. _Bred in captivity._ “Why won’t you look at me?”

A strange noise left Snape, a choked barking kind of laugh. “I cannot be trusted to do otherwise.”

“I trust you.”

Everything seemed to freeze for an instant. Harry blinked, stunned by his own words. 

Snape shuddered violently. “Harry, get _out_.”

Without thought to the consequences, the younger man reached out and gently pressed his hand against Snape’s shoulder. Whether he meant to apologize or was attempting to soothe the pain he heard in the other’s voice he never knew, because Snape instantly whirled around and pushed himself off the wall to loom over him. The boy gasped in sudden fear at his professor’s proximity and the terribly expression in his eyes. Snape opened his mouth and looked for a moment as though he was going to scream, but then he seemed to stop, frozen in place.

Dark eyes stared hard at the boy, unblinking, as though they could see through him. He seemed to be struggling with something, emotions flickering in his eyes like flames behind a veil. Harry trembled beneath the weight of the gaze and his breath caught in the back of his throat. Snape advanced on him, closing the miniscule distance with steps so slow and graceful that Harry wasn’t sure if he was walking or levitating. 

A trembling hand rose and its palm gently caressed Harry’s left cheek, long potion-stained finger gently curving over the slope of the teen’s skin. Harry shivered beneath that touch and leaned forward into his professor’s dark robes, sagging heavily against the older man, as his legs seemed to shake violently. The hand petting his cheek gently ghosted upward, the ring finger tentatively brushing over the fragile shell of the boy’s ear, making him gasp, and then continuing back to card through short messy hair with infinite gentleness.

Harry’s mind was racing faster than his heart, a hundred thoughts flying through before he could register them. He was acutely aware of a slow throbbing pooling between his legs and whimpered when Snape took another step forward and a strong thigh suddenly brushed against his gradually hardening penis. Harry shuddered and pressed himself hard against that leg, aching and shaking and utterly helpless beneath the fire in Snape’s hard, black eyes. Eyes that were now anything but cold. How could he have ever seen them any differently?

“Severus,” he murmured, as those eyes suddenly drew closer. The name was more of a decision than anything else and he thrilled somehow to say such a potent, private word as “Severus.”

Snape made an odd, almost strangled noise in his throat as though he were trying to say something and couldn’t find the words he wanted and then suddenly Harry was being kissed.

It was not at all romantic bliss or impassioned chastity, but hungry and desperate. Needy. It was lips and tongues and the barest clatter of teeth, and a hand cupping the back of his head to raise him up a bit while another slid down to grip his bum _hard_ , coaxing his suddenly uncontrollable hips to rub just a bit harder and a bit faster against the sturdy, immovable reality of that leg between his. Harry gasped, opening his mouth just a bit more, and whimpered at the faint taste of something sweet and tangy that lingered on Snape’s tongue. Some irrational part of him wondered if he tasted like butterscotch. He’d had butterscotch before curfew. Did Snape like butterscotch?

But then Snape moaned and Harry found himself being pushed backwards and he wanted to wail when that leg disentangled itself from his own. _Severus._ It was oddly sweet, the desperation with which Snape held him. It was comforting. And the man was gripping him too hard, and he wanted out, and he’d have bruises come morning, but it felt _good_ , despite the sudden rush of fear that laced through him. It felt good and occasionally a distinctive hardness pressed up against him as Snape half carried, half pushed the boy backwards, his tongue sliding wetly against Harry’s and its tip flickered lightly at the roof of his captive’s mouth.

The breath left Harry in a rush as his back suddenly impacted with a cold stone wall. That blessed leg slid back in between his and the boy’s hips bucked violently against the older man’s leather pants, thankful for the contact. Snape groaned into his mouth, a sound that Harry immediately echoed, and tore his lips free, gasping for air. Harry allowed his head to fall back against the wall harder than was comfortable, but that didn’t matter either because Snape was then kissing his throat and pressing him so hard against that wall and the hand on his bum had somehow worked its way underneath his robes and to his waistband and was tugging his shirt out of his pants and—

Harry arched against the man pinning him to the wall as Snape’s hand worked its way down the back of his y-fronts, _touching him_. That was . . . That was . . .

The boy’s hands gripped the man’s head, getting hopelessly tangled up in long black hair. But it was soft and thick and, _yes_ , greasy, and smelled faintly of ginger and peppermint. Which was odd, because Snape himself never smelled like ginger and peppermint and that hand was moving and touching and Harry was moving and gasping and hovering on the edge of something so _beautiful_ and—

A choked scream tore out of Harry’s throat before he was even aware that he had made the sound and he shoved Snape off of him _hard_ , knocking the Potions Master to the ground. 

For an instant the two of them stared at one another, looking stunned. Snape’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes were wide. He looked strangely unnerved as he sat sprawled on the floor. Harry made a pained, panicked noise in the back of his throat and pressed himself back against the wall as though attempting to sink into the stones.

_Severus Snape—Bred in captivity._

Snape licked his lips, his eyes darting about the room as the briefest traces of something like terror played over his expression. His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, trying to force out words that weren’t there. “Ha—Po—”

“I can’t.” Harry wanted to scream when the words left his mouth, but he couldn’t seem to focus on anything beyond the trembling in his limbs and the awful, awful fact of Severus’s wide, frightened eyes. He averted his eyes and pushed himself away from the wall. “I can’t.”

_Coward!_

But even as he rebuked himself, all he could think of was escape. Because there it was, Severus Snape, in all his ignominious glory. A man who was neither legend nor monster, sinner nor saint, savior nor devil, evil nor good. A man who was nothing. A man who was everything. A man whom Harry Potter saw— _saw_ — in the way that one sees and recognizes the truths of the Mirror of Erised—and knew he both had and wanted. And suddenly didn’t want at all. 

How could one want something and be so frightened of it at the same time? Yet there he sat, thrown down, plain, less than comely, and more than a little bit afraid. Harry saw that he was human for the first time since he’d known the man. And that _terrified_ him.

Severus swallowed and began to himself upright. “Harry—”

So Harry ran. 

Past Snape, past the table, past the too-large fire and too-full shelves, out of the room. Out of the dungeon. Out of the lower South Tower and all the way up to the staircase to the North Tower where he collapsed with a muffled cry. He ran into someone during his flight, knocking them down, but he didn’t care. Why should he care? He had run away from it. He needed it, wanted it, and had _had_ it all, right there in his hands . . . But he had run away. Away from Severus.

And, first and foremost, away from all that wonder and banality that he needed so very desperately.

_Bred in captivity._

Oh, _**God**_ . . .

A noise that sounded suspiciously like a whimper struggled to crawl out of his throat so he clapped his hands over his mouth to force down the sound. 

_Severus._

And what would Sirius say?

. . .

Nothing. 

Sirius was dead.

And he couldn’t stop shaking, trembling until his teeth chattered and he was forced to drag in deep, unsatisfying breathes through his nose because he didn’t dare move his hands. He’d scream. He knew he would.

So he simply sat very, very still, hands clasped over his mouth, breathing like he’d run to Athens from Marathon.

What had he done? What had he _done_?

Severus would never talk to him again. He’d hate him now for sure. He’d never—he’d never look at him like _that_ . . . Like Harry was everything. Never. Not now. Not after tonight.

The swallowed whimper turned into a sob that he could barely keep down. 

And then there was Sirius.

What had he done?

He desperately wanted Snape to come up and find him. To come and stand behind him in that oddly comforting silence and simply _be_ there for as long as Harry needed. Hell, he’d be happy if Severus would come just to yell at him, get him expelled. _Something._ Anything.

But he never came.

Dawn found Harry Potter curled up at the base of the stairs, shivering with cold, two hands pressed so tightly against his mouth that his lips were bluish and swollen. 

And he never came.

**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

**“ _Wishful thinking I might be yours,  
Drifting on every step;  
I'm always drawn to the dark horse.  
Sweet, sweet, oh nothing's said . . ._**

**_And every dream, every, is just a dream, after all,  
And everything stands so still when you dance.  
Everything spins so fast,  
And the night's in a paper cup  
When you want it to last._ **

**_Wishful thinking you might be mine . . .  
Every shiver sends  
One breath under the bridge of sighs,  
Bending where the river bends._ **

**_And every dream, every, is just a dream, after all._ ”**

**\- Heather Nova  
 _Paper Cup_**

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

**~ To be continued in:  
 _Where the Heart Moves the Stone_**

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

****


End file.
